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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28929156">not a place, but a people</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariigold86/pseuds/mariigold86'>mariigold86</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Action/Adventure, Adventure, Aged-Up Characters, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Betaed, Distant future, Exploration, Gen, Plot, Self-Discovery, Sleepy Bois Inc as Family, big law is canon yes i did do that, but not in a weird way, canon divergency starts after the exile arc, for worldbuilding reasons, i made everything a bit bigger, pretend l'manberg didn't blow up that last time</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 13:42:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>25,346</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28929156</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariigold86/pseuds/mariigold86</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>New L'Manberg was a place that rewarded curiosity and determination, and it offered plenty of opportunities for Tubbo to prove himself. So much of the city’s history had been lost to time, and much more of it had simply never been documented. Even the smallest discoveries felt monumental to him. Each mystery he came across melted like tangled thread in his fingers, revealing a secret for every knot he managed to untie. He had yet to figure out whether any of his findings would ever connect, or if the picture he had been painting was less of a cohesive image and more of a collage, or even if he hadn’t wet his brush at all. Despite the unknowing, Tubbo found himself chasing the thrill of exploration endlessly.</p><p>In running his hand along a stone wall in the Central District of the city, Tubbo found his fingers skipping over worn carvings of sheep in an open field. Later in the week, ducking out of a bookstore into the rain, the back of the shop’s sign had caught his eye. He had squinted through the downpour and could just make out a faded advertisement for a roller coaster that called attention to the attraction with words he couldn’t quite grasp the meaning of.</p><p>(He could, if he would only try.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>No Romantic Relationship(s), Toby Smith | Tubbo &amp; TommyInnit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>68</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>57</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. the war is over</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>chapter title from "In Our Bedroom After The War" by Stars</p><p>thank you to egg, banks, and cat for beta reading</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the letters home to his parents, Tubbo could write about the sprawling city that was New L’Manberg; about the fishmongers who barked their wares from the docks, and how he could almost hear them in the mornings from his apartment; about the city center built hundreds of years before even his grandparents had been born, standing on legs carved with names that no one alive could recall; about how the streets were lined with lanterns that burned like tiny suns against even the darkest of nights, against the rain and the snow and the fog that always seemed to drape itself over the canals. Tubbo could write about the locals he had met, and how the people born to the city seemed to hum with an energy all their own, electric and exciting and new.</p><p>He was here for school, and nothing more. The University of New L’Manberg offered one of the most prestigious law degrees in the country — in the world, even. It was an honor for Tubbo to attend, let alone on such a generous scholarship. The more he told himself this, the more truth there seemed to be. He was lucky, yes, and grateful for the school’s altruism, but there felt like there was something more to his arrival. New L’Manberg spoke to Tubbo like no place ever had, as if he shared a kinship with the very grounds upon which he walked.</p><p>It was a place that rewarded curiosity and determination, and it offered plenty of opportunities for Tubbo to prove himself. So much of the city’s history had been lost to time, and much more of it had simply never been documented. Even the smallest discoveries felt monumental to him. Each mystery he came across melted like tangled thread in his fingers, revealing a secret for every knot he managed to untie. He had yet to figure out whether any of his findings would ever connect, or if the picture he had been painting was less of a cohesive image and more of a collage, or even if he hadn’t wet his brush at all. Despite the unknowing, Tubbo found himself chasing the thrill of exploration endlessly.</p><p>In running his hand along a stone wall in the Central District of the city, Tubbo found his fingers skipping over worn carvings of sheep in an open field. Later in the week, ducking out of a bookstore into the rain, the back of the shop’s sign had caught his eye. He had squinted through the downpour and could just make out a faded advertisement for a roller coaster that called attention to the attraction with words he couldn’t quite grasp the meaning of.</p><p>And maybe they weren’t groundbreaking historical discoveries — the gold-plated penny he had found lodged under a cabinet, the box of marbles in a curio shop inscribed with a name in Enderspeak, the bronze memorial to a long-dead ambassador to a place Tubbo didn’t recognize — but they were important to him. It was like he was being welcomed into New L’Manberg by the city itself, as if it was guiding him by the hand and showing him the story of its youth. Each day presented him a new opportunity to solve something, to connect the dots scattered throughout each district until they formed a picture that made sense to him. And it almost felt, sometimes, like Tubbo could feel the city’s hand in his own, its breath on his cheek. He could hear the secrets he uncovered one by one as if they echoed his own realizations.</p><p>Every once in a while, Tubbo would find himself exploring something that he couldn’t rationalize. It was as if his own thoughts were the echo, in close pursuit of something outside of himself, jarringly antecedent. <em> The piano over there, </em> it would murmur, and Tubbo would find his fingers tracing fingerprints worn into the ivory. <em> Best musician in town. </em> He played a <em> c </em>chord, and the voice fell silent, unspoken praise hanging in the air between reality and personification.</p><p>The more time he spent in New L’Manberg, the more Tubbo heard that voice. It followed him on his walks to class, peered over his shoulder at his textbooks, and offered commentary over his mug of hot cocoa in the mornings. He came to know the voice as less of an extension of himself and more of a thing all its own. It was a companion, sitting across from him at the dinner table where he otherwise would have had no one to eat with. It was comforting, in a way, if he didn’t think about it too much. Tubbo was almost embarrassed by how much he found himself relying on his voice, and the more he heard it, the more it felt like something normal. It had blended so effortlessly into his day-to-day that he hardly had enough time to register how strange it was to understand the inner workings of a place he had only known for a handful of weeks.</p><p>It was useful, too, when he needed it to be. His voice seemed to know more about New L’Manberg than anyone, noting to him the pattern woven by the market stalls and the habits of fishing boats as they drifted slowly back to the harbor.  <em> Creaky floorboard, </em> it would tell him sagely, and he would hear the whine before he even placed his foot down. </p><p>In the small pieces of information that he could understand (and not all of it was something he was able to make sense of), Tubbo’s voice was fond of explaining the significance of the old buildings and plots of land that they passed by. His apartment, for one, had been built on what the voice only referred to in a hushed tone as <em> sacred land. </em></p><p><em> Important building, </em> it stated solemnly, a heavy presence behind Tubbo as he smeared a dollop of toothpaste onto his toothbrush. </p><p>“If it’s so important, you’d think they’d have at least tried to make it look nice.”</p><p>
  <em> Looks better now. </em>
</p><p>Tubbo scoffed at that. “The plumbing has seen better days.” </p><p>
  <em> Blue hair. </em>
</p><p>“Well now you’re just mocking me–”</p><p>A knock, hesitant and quiet, came at the door. There was a beat of silence between all three of them before it came again, this time more confident, as if the person behind it had made up their mind.</p><p><em> Answer </em>.</p><p>“Good idea,” Tubbo muttered under his breath, crossing the distance between his bathroom and the entryway. In the time it took, the knocking had grown louder, almost bold in its insistence. </p><p>He swung it open forcefully, glaring up at the gangly teenager standing in the doorway. The first thing that struck Tubbo was the fact that he was soaked to the bone, standing in a puddle that was slowly spreading out on the doormat. He was tall, dressed casually in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt (both of which were darkened by an intriguing selection of stains), face framed by messy blonde hair. There was a dark smear of mud on his cheek, and his fist, still raised as if he hadn’t yet registered that Tubbo had answered, looked like it was freshly bloodied by shallow scratches across his knuckles and palms. </p><p>“Have you seen my dog?”</p><p>“Nice to meet you, too.” Tubbo slid his hand off the doorknob, folding his arms across his chest idly. The stranger at least had the sense to flash him an apologetic smile, but it quickly fell away as he leaned forward, ignoring Tubbo entirely to peer through the doorway.</p><p>“Yeah, he’s kinda shaggy, and he’s brown. He’s big, too. His name’s Henry but he doesn’t come when you call because he’s a bitch. Hard to miss ‘im if you’re looking around.” The stranger seemed to take Tubbo’s momentary hospitality as an invite, ducking under the doorframe and passing Tubbo to stand in the center of the room. </p><p>Tubbo hardly had time to react before his new houseguest was on his hands and knees, peering under the bed and whistling through his teeth. “Any fugitives under here? Maybe if you cleaned once in a while…” He trailed off, flicking at an empty cardboard box with his index finger. </p><p>“Tommy, what are you doing?” Tubbo sputtered, slamming the door shut behind him — Prime forbid any more unsupervised children come traipsing into his room — and scrambling to stand between the stranger and his bed. “I haven’t seen your dog!”</p><p>Slowly, the stranger lifted his head from the carpeted floor, eyes narrowed as he turned to Tubbo. “I didn’t give you my name,” he stated, as if <em> that </em> was the strangest part of this encounter. </p><p>And of course he would ask that. Because they had never met, and Tubbo had to remind himself that people didn’t usually know each other’s names before ever speaking. Biting back a curse, Tubbo stuttered out, “I’ve seen you around, haven’t I? You’re friends with… uh…” He laughed nervously. “You live next door, don’t you? Across the street in that little grey house.” When Tommy didn’t seem impressed by his explanation, he added, “I”m Tubbo,” with a squeak that hung in the air for a second too long.</p><p>“Right.” Tommy stood slowly, rising from the floor with a levelness that made Tubbo nervous, its calculation evident. “I don’t think you’re from here.” It was a statement, not a question. Tommy didn’t expect an answer, and yet Tubbo found himself giving one anyways, nodding as embarrassment bloomed in his chest and sitting down carefully on the bed.</p><p>“So I take it you haven’t seen Henry.” Tubbo shook his head. “Will you help me find him, then?” </p><p>Not for the first time that night, Tubbo gave Tommy a once-over. He couldn’t have been much younger than Tubbo himself, but there was a softness to his features that betrayed his experience. He guessed that Tommy was probably freshly out of high school, a child in his own right. There was an eagerness about him like a kid on Christmas, something so raw that it almost made Tubbo uncomfortable. He was so… he didn’t have a way to describe it. Something like hindsight suggested that it was that spark he saw in all of the people from this place — New L’Manberg’s own personal charm, if you will. It was difficult to turn down something that had become so innately part of him. “I don’t suppose I have much of a choice, do I?”</p><p>Tommy smiled brightly, letting out a jubilant laugh as he replied, “Not anymore, you don’t!” He held out his hand, still very much bloodied, and, against all of his better judgement, Tubbo took it. Tommy pulled Tubbo from his seated position, dragging him out into the hallway before he even had a chance to grab his jacket from the closet. </p><p>Tommy leaped headfirst into the night, completely unaffected by the cold. Tubbo was not so similarly immune to the November air; it left him gasping for a breath that wouldn’t come as his lungs struggled to function around the ice in his throat. Tommy’s hand was still on his wrist, though, and he quickly found himself sloshing through shallow puddles that had sunken into the cobbled streets. </p><p>Above them, lampposts stood sentry over the quiet neighborhood, dampened by the mist that hung in the air. The moon was barely visible beyond them, a faded flashlight beam that lit the tops of the trees with faint silver halos. It was late, Tubbo realized with a jolt. The lights in most of the houses lining the street had gone dark, save for a few candles that he could just make out, perched carefully on bedroom window sills like quiet cats. </p><p>“How long have you been out here?” Tubbo asked, and his question clung to his breath, pale and colorless, before it drifted onward in the direction they were headed.</p><p>“A while,” came Tommy’s curt reply. “Got lots of neighbors to check up on. To ask questions to.”</p><p>Tubbo’s mouth formed an <em> oh </em>that he didn’t voice, choosing instead to rub his hands up and down his arms in an admittedly artful evasion of the subject. “Well, have you checked the park?” He tipped his head to the right, where he knew a set of stairs would take them down to a stretch of grass reserved for swing sets and flower beds.</p><p>“Not yet. I was sort of hoping that someone else would be able to do my work for me.”</p><p>“Well, here I am.” Tubbo quickened his pace, leaving Tommy snickering behind him as he descended the stairs. They were slick with condensation, but the bricks were worn enough to give his shoes some grip as he sidled along the railing. </p><p>The park spread out before them in a clumsy semicircle, running along the length of the hill until it met Salmon Creek and the forest thinned into suburbs. Tubbo was familiar with this place — the ducks were friendly and the late afternoon sunlight warmed the grass until it was almost tolerable for studying — but the night had warped his surroundings until they were unrecognizable. He would have been disoriented if not for the railing clutched tightly in his left hand, rooting him to the stairs.</p><p>Tubbo turned to ask Tommy where he wanted to look first, but he had already started to wander off, shaking the low-hanging branches of each tree he came across and whistling brightly. Tubbo sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and set off in the opposite direction.</p><p>It took them almost a full hour to finally find Henry, wet, dirty, and just as slobbery as Tommy had said that he would be. By that point, Tubbo was sure that they didn’t look much better. His hair was plastered to his face, matted and crusted with mud in what he imagined was the world’s worst cowlick. Tommy’s own hair had gone limp, and he sported a fresh cut on his lip that he had attributed to some particularly nasty briars. </p><p>Tubbo didn’t feel the exhaustion that he knew he should have felt. He knew he was cold, but his face felt flushed with excitement. He had never been one for adventure, and his brief diversion had left him nearly breathless, fingers shaking in the pockets of his jeans. He had half a mind to come up with an excuse that would keep him and Tommy out for longer.</p><p>But Tommy cursed, suddenly, and held his wrist up to his face, squinting past the layer of grime that had coated the clock face. “Dad is going to kill me,” he muttered darkly. He looked up, meeting Tubbo’s concern with a grimace of his own. “I have to go now before they start auctioning off my things to the neighbors.”</p><p>“Can’t have that,” Tubbo agreed solemnly, pushing down the disappointment that threatened to spill over.</p><p>“Thanks for everything,” Tommy said, suddenly serious in a way Tubbo hadn’t yet seen him. “I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t found Henry.” As Tommy spoke, he reached down to scratch the big dog between his ears. Despite his best efforts, Henry failed to look remorseful.</p><p>“It was no problem, big man.”</p><p>“Big man,” Tommy repeated incredulously. “That’s good. I like that. I’m gonna start using that one.” He laughed, and then turned, grabbing Henry’s collar loosely in one hand. “I’ll see you around!” Tommy called over his shoulder. He practically flew up the stairs, long legs taking him in bounding strides until both he and Henry had disappeared over the ridge.</p><p>Tubbo waited for a moment at the base of the hill, eyes locked onto the space where Tommy had been a moment ago. He took a long time to himself.</p><p>When he finally pushed himself into motion, the pain from his cuts and bruises had nearly doubled. It seared through him, building with each slow, careful step he took towards his apartment. </p><p>By the time he reached the front door (unlocked, he noted flatly), Tubbo was hardly conscious, kept standing by the stiffness in his joints. It was as if he had just spent the last hour in a dead sprint. He rationalized that he hadn’t had that much excitement since he had been a kid, and definitely not since he had left home. </p><p>As he slid himself into bed, though, there was a hum of activity behind his eyelids. He had hardly noticed the dormancy of his voice until it started up again, and welcomed its familiarity as his thoughts began to drift. Tubbo could just barely make out the words, and it took all his willpower to not simply roll over and ignore it. Instead, he let it wash over him, muffled and warm, and sank deeper into his pillows. Caked in dirt and soaking wet, Tubbo slept. In his dreams, he fell, and fought, and burned, and swam, and flew. The warmth was smoke in his lungs and the setting sun on his face. It was music swelling in his chest.</p><p>
  <em> Tommy. </em>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. our future plays tricks on us</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>chapter title from "Cut Yr Teeth" by Kississippi</p><p>tw // mild themes of derealization in the first dozen or so paragraphs, stay safe :-)</p><p>also thanks besties egg, banks, and cat for betaing hehe</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Consciousness came slow to Tubbo the next morning; it was as if the world around him had slowed to a stop, and he was a victim of its deceleration. Sluggishly, he wondered if it was the fact that he had slept at all that made it so hard to wake up. It would have made sense. All the stress he had been under as of late had made it hard to even think about sleeping, let alone bring himself to relax. But there was work to be done, he recalled with a pang of guilt. He was needed elsewhere. With some difficulty, Tubbo forced himself to gather his wits, rubbing at his eyes with one dirty hand.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He was in Tommy’s house; he remembered that much. He could smell the soil on the bed sheets, tinged with the sourness of gunpowder. Though, he supposed, it wasn’t really Tommy’s house anymore. It was their embassy now, a beacon of light in an all-too-dark tyranny. At least, that was what the others said. To Tubbo, it would always be the little shack from his and Tommy’s early months in the territory. He wasn’t alone in that sentiment, either; it hadn’t been a week since the burrow had been renamed, and already Tommy had replaced the sign above the door. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The door, Tubbo lamented, which hadn’t yet been replaced since the last explosions. Sunlight was already pouring freely through the open frame and directly onto Tubbo’s borrowed bed. He flipped the blankets over his head in mock protest, grumbling at the shower of dirt that followed. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Half-awake as he was, Tubbo almost shouted to Tommy. He wasn’t sure what he would have said (</span>
  </em>
  <span>wash your sheets</span>
  <em>
    <span>, probably), but it died in his throat when he remembered where he was. One shout would do more than annoy the neighbors, who retaliated with little more than loosing their chickens in Tommy’s carrot patch. It would alert anyone nearby who might be listening. The embassy’s fragile status as theirs would do nothing against someone who truly wished to see his friends suffer.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Tubbo shouldn’t have slept here in the first place. He realized this with a rush of adrenaline, suddenly finding his sense of self-preservation as he sorted clumsily through his thoughts. He could have fallen victim to any number of assaults or raids in the night, and he would have been a sleeping duck in nothing but — he felt around under the covers — in no armor whatsoever. He nearly scoffed at himself.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It was foolish, he admitted, rolling over to face the adjacent dirt wall, but it almost felt necessary, in a selfish way. The time he had spent gathering resources and brewing potions for his allies hadn’t yielded much in terms of results. It felt like he was just perpetrating an endless string of conflicts, with no end in sight. And it was exhausting, sure, but he was the only one who would do it. He didn’t mind it, not really. The others were busy with their leading, and strategizing, and building, and fighting. It left him to pick up the busywork. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“And it’s busywork that I’m going to do, because that’s what I’m good for,” he murmured to himself, the sarcasm aching in his chest. He yawned, stretching as he shifted into a sitting position. The blankets slid to the floor, leaving him cold in the shallowly-lit room. He watched them fall onto the carpet, eyes half-lidded against the sleep crusted in their corners. Tommy didn’t have carpets, he noted sleepily.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And suddenly Tubbo felt his entire body jolt as an overwhelming sense of </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrongness</span>
  </em>
  <span> overtook him. Bed. Desk. Carpet. Kitchen. No dirt walls, no cobbled floor, no… Tubbo breathed in deeply, letting his shoulders slump as he fell back against his pillows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been a dream, and nothing more. Tubbo’s heart raced in his chest despite his best efforts to calm it, and he let out a shaky breath. He had been scared. Terrified. And yet, at the same time, he had felt resigned to his fate. What fate had that been, again? As he opened his eyes once more, Tubbo felt the memory slipping away. All it left behind was the taste in his mouth, bitter and textured like a mealy apple.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dirt was real, though. With his covers in a heap on the floor, Tubbo had an uninhibited view of the clothes he had fallen asleep in, which he hadn’t bothered to change out of. They were caked completely in mud and plant matter. Whatever mess he had had to spare coated the sheets and pillows in a wide ring around his position in the center of the bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An exasperated “What the hell?” sprung unbidden to his lips, and he found himself waiting for an answer as he stared down at his brutalized bedroom.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Tommy!</span>
  </em>
  <span> Came the quiet voice, almost a yawn as it came into being.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I-” Tubbo scrubbed at his face, rubbing away a thin layer of grime on his cheeks. “I know what happened. It’s a figure of speech.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo swung his legs over the side of the bed, flinching at the contact they made with the blankets, and stumbled to the bathroom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His toothbrush still sat on the rim of the sink, untouched from the night before. In the mirror,  Tubbo was completely unrecognizable. His shirt, loudly proclaiming the name of his high school, was torn around the cuffs and stained across the front with something that Tubbo wasn’t confident enough to name. His jeans were stiff, still wet and cold around his ankles. He had always prided himself on keeping his hair relatively neat, but now it fell limply around his face in matted pieces. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tentatively, with shaking hands, Tubbo turned the nozzle on the faucet. He watched the water heat, fiddling with a washcloth, before dabbing at his face. The dirt peeled away, at the cloth’s insistence, though it was slow. Tubbo washed his hair, too, cracking the muddy shells and watching as they disappeared down the drain. He didn’t bother with soap; he would worry about being clean later that night, when he had the time to dedicate to a full routine. Now, he was more concerned with looking mildly presentable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He draped his clothes over the lip of the tub, wincing at the discomfort, and quickly pulled a clean sweater over his head. Now, the Tubbo he saw in the mirror looked like a respectable member of society. He smiled, and the reflection smiled back, content. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had only taken Tubbo twenty or so minutes to wash off. That gave him enough time to head to the library before he had class and finish the work he had unceremoniously put off in favor of helping Tommy. It had been reckless, he reminded himself as he slipped on a second, not-ruined pair of shoes. He had his scholarship to think about, and skipping his homework to fool around in the woods put that at risk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo fumbled with the buttons on his jacket and dragged his backpack from its seat at the kitchen table. He looked once more over his apartment, ignoring the muddy footprints that tracked from the front door, and stepped out into the hallway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Outside of the heated complex, the morning was not much warmer than the night had been. It was still considerably wet; the grass was frosted white, condensation clinging to the metal guardrails on either side of the steps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Much of the neighborhood mirrored the gloom of the day. The houses on either side of Tubbo were dark, quiet monoliths watching over the empty street. They were silent save for the whisper of shutters against worn siding. The street lights had just begun to flicker off as the sun filtered in through a thickly-clouded sky. It made the mist especially hard to see through. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Across the street, Tubbo could make out the subtle signs that Tommy’s family was getting an early start. The curtains were still drawn in many of the windows, but the kitchen’s had been pulled aside, revealing a warmly-lit interior. Through the warped panes, he could just make out the movement of several people, all dancing around each other in what Tubbo could only assume was a daily ritual. The abstract figures moved elegantly, in harmony with one another even as they pushed and jabbed and threw their hands up at each other. He stood there for a moment, his backpack still clutched against his chest, watching the blurry shapes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, Tubbo tore his gaze away from the scene, slinging his bag over one shoulder and turning down the path to the city. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wood was slick with rainwater from the night before. Papery brown leaves lined the walkway, and above him, the sky was still overcast, though the day was bright; it meant that the fog hadn’t yet lifted from the city, and New L’Manberg was still a specter cloaked in its sheet. From the hill upon which his neighborhood sat, he could make out twinkling lamp lights below, the only illumination in an otherwise dark silhouette. It was eerie, but strangely comforting, to be the only figure for miles. It was almost as if some apocalypse had left its ghostly tear tracks behind, flowing as vapor through the canals. All for him, singularly-populated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you have to say this morning?” He spoke into the void, coaxing. If he had no one else atop his vantage point, he still had the company of his voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s a bit rude.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo lurched back, stumbling off of the path and into the yard of one of his neighbors. He caught himself on their fence gate, slowing his fall enough to look up at Tommy, who stood wide-eyed and frozen. For a single second, they were both silent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, without warning, Tommy keeled over, hands on his knees, and belted out the most outrageous laugh Tubbo had ever heard. The tranquility that had befallen the sleepy city was abruptly shattered, falling to pieces in the space between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did you do that for?” He barked, choking on the words in his effort to force them out. Tommy nearly toppled over himself as he struggled to contain another fit of laughter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo huffed, pushing himself off of the fence and closing the distance to point an accusatory finger in Tommy’s face. “What the hell do you have to gain by sneaking up on someone like that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wiping tears from his eyes, Tommy replied, “I didn’t. I thought you knew I was there.” He straightened to his full height, still biting back a smile. “You were talking, asking questions. I thought you heard me. Or maybe you saw me with some freaky third eye or something.” He wiggled his fingers to emphasize his suggestion, and Tubbo had to physically restrain himself from slapping them away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I didn’t,” Tubbo huffed, exasperated. Then, for good measure: “That’s just stupid. You’re being stupid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, alright.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy turned to look out over the city, effectively dropping the conversation. Tubbo followed his gaze, biting back a second retort. In the short time that his attention had been drawn away, a quiet hum had risen from the lower districts; people were waking, slowly, purposefully. The wooden platforms creaked under thousands of bodies. Further out, through the fog, lights winked on and off in the harbor as fishermen traded docks for the morning, hauling in groupers and eels and promising calmer waters to their peers. Below them, school children darted through the crowds, shoving one another and shrieking. In the distance, he could just barely make out the College District, where the earliest classes were just starting their sessions. The library sat between them and the campus, a smudge on the effective map at their disposal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo could feel it now: that aura of life and vitality that pulsated from the very core of New L’Manberg. It hummed through the soles of his shoes and stung his eyes with tears at its magnitude. He could hear his voice, then, soft and reassuring:</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Look. My home.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo couldn’t do much more than nod stiffly, running a hand through his hair as if the contact might dissolve the pins and needles brimming up inside of him</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he turned, Tommy was still looking out at the skyline, his expression carefully neutral. Tubbo watched the scene dance in his eyes, pale blue, narrowed against a sharp wind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why are you out here?” Tubbo asked, almost remorseful as he broke the solemn silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve got work to do.” Tommy tore himself away from the view. He gestured to the crumpled brown paper bag in his hand, shaking it up and down as if to prove a point. “Somebody’s gotta be the man of the household.” He puffed out his chest, and Tubbo bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where are you headed, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You heard of Zuko’s?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yes.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Tubbo shook his head no.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s the bakery my cousin runs,” Tommy explained, running his hand along the railing as he scaled the stairs down to the Central District. “She’s letting me work there until Dad’s boat is fixed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And then what?” Tubbo prompted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And then I’ll work for him, probably. I dunno.” Tommy wiped his hands on the front of his jacket. “Or maybe I’ll keep working there. Or maybe I’ll hop a train to Hypixel and never see this place again. Who knows?” His intonation was cheerful, light-hearted, but Tubbo couldn’t help his wince.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you’re not going to college here?” Tubbo asked, wiping his own hands free of the icy water along the siding. “The University of New L’Manberg is, like, the best school… Anywhere.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy laughed at that. “S’not for me, Tubbo. I’m a free spirit.” He pronounced the words like they were rounded and awkward in his mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo turned away to face the street. He was distinctly uncomfortable, and yet he couldn’t place why. It felt wrong to be talking about leaving, to not have plans here. He couldn’t imagine taking the ferry back to his parents’ home in Snowchester, not after everything he had come to learn about New L’Manberg, and certainly not after all the things he hadn’t even discovered yet. It didn’t make sense, then, why Tommy would want to leave so many amazing things behind. He must not have known that there wasn’t anything beyond New L’Manberg’s borders. He simply didn’t realize how good he’d had it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they melded with the main thoroughfare, the crowd around them grew. The path, too, became wider, stretching to make enough room for horses and carts to mingle with pedestrians. Below them, the tide lurched against support beams crusted with algae and barnacles. He could just make out the dark shapes of kelp stretching up from the sandy bottom. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Barkers pitched their tents along the street, hung proudly in the city’s colors. The banners billowed loosely in the breeze; the wind on the hill hadn’t found its way through the tight alleyways just yet, held at bay by tall, overhanging homes. Many of the ground floors had opened their doors as shops as well, with signs that promised candles, winter cloaks, spices — all manner of goods that made Tubbo’s head spin with the sheer possibility of it all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beside him, Tommy was still talking, but Tubbo had tuned him out (“–and Sapnap’s a dick, so it doesn’t matter what he thinks about Henry anyways–”). His voice was harder to ignore in the heart of the city. The white noise of the crowd gave it a platform to speak with, like a backdrop to a painting. It meant it was louder, shouting to be heard above all other distractions.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Blacksmith. Used to be free.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked and, sure enough, he could see the smoke rising from a massive brick chimney, and the clang of metal on metal rung out through the canvas of jumbled noise. Then, Tommy steered them down a side street, and the shop disappeared from view.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Here, embedded in the cement, Tubbo could just barely make out handprints neatly lining the curb. They were worn with age; he wouldn’t have seen them if not for the warmth surging through his lungs with each step he took, bubbling up like laughter. The prints stopped abruptly as the path turned once more into thick wooden planks, and Tubbo cleared his throat to release the tightness building up. </span>
</p><p><em><span>Wanted poster. </span></em><span>It whispered excitedly. </span><em><span>Reverse coaster. Independance.</span></em><span> Tubbo had never been to this part of the city before. As much as he prided himself for his relentless curiosity when it came to uncovering New L’Manberg’s secrets, he stuck relatively close to the College District. Now, all of the names and stories that his voice hadn’t had a chance to express were finally spilling over, echoing forcefully between his ears and bouncing around in his skull like a pinball game. </span><em><span>Rocket ship.</span></em> <em><span>Fungi grave.</span></em></p><p>
  <span>The world was spinning, now. The platforms felt like they were swaying under his feet with the sheer volume of knowledge being thrown at him. Tubbo groaned, putting his head in his hands and shutting his eyes against the noise. It was all building in him like carbonation and threatening to explode out the back of his head. He hadn’t even realized that he had stopped walking until he felt a hand on his arm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo peeked out from behind his hands, staring at the arm before following it to Tommy’s furrowed expression. He looked almost indignant, if not somewhat concerned. “You don’t look so hot.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo took a deep breath in. And another. If he focussed hard enough, he could swallow the nausea brewing up from his stomach. “Are we almost there?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, we’re…” Tommy paused to look him up and down, clearly running some sort of diagnostics check as he searched for something tangible to link to Tubbo’s distress. “My brother gets migraines a lot. Do you… Do you want to lie down?” His caution was almost clumsy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I’m fine,” Tubbo persisted, shaking off Tommy’s arm and ignoring the renewed swell of dizziness that came with its absence.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Poor Fungi. Poor, poor Fungi.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where’s the bakery?” Tubbo asked again, steeling himself once more with a shaky inhale.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ve been here. For a while.” Tommy’s uncertainty bled into full-fledged concern. “Are you sure you don’t need to—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine!” Tubbo bit back, spinning to look up to where Tommy had gestured. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, despite having access to a fountain of intimate knowledge about all areas of New L’Manberg, Tubbo found himself taken aback. Squished in between two three-story apartments, “Zuko’s” looked like it was hardly big enough to stand in, let alone to serve as a bakery. It was a little afterthought of a building, structured out of sandy-colored siding and a chipped green door. The mailbox pinned under the one exterior window hung at an angle, sporting a brass number </span>
  <em>
    <span>30</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The window itself looked as if it had been set in place by unpracticed hands, and the shutters on either side had been painted in two different shades. A sign on the door, written in intricate cursive, read: “We’re closed!” Tubbo had half a mind to wonder if Tommy had led him to a condemned lot, and if he wasn’t the only one between them to be hearing voices. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As if sensing his uncertainty, Tommy flashed Tubbo a toothy grin and skipped over the front steps to stand on the concrete stoop. He knocked once, twice, rocking back and forth on his heels.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It took a minute before the door finally swung open, revealing a young woman in a flower-printed apron. Her hair, the same dirty blonde as Tommy’s, sat at the base of her neck, braided and twisted into a tight bun. Her makeup was dark behind a pair of tortoiseshell glasses, and her eyes were narrowed as she regarded the teenager on her front steps, lips pursed into a disapproving frown.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Tubbo studied her face — she looked so much like Tommy, but he could have sworn that he’d seen her before — the woman brandished a long-handled broom at Tommy, who held up his hands in what looked like practiced surrender.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re late again, Tommy,” she stated. Her voice was soft, rounded. It might have been endearing if not for the improvised weapon in her hands. Tubbo had no doubts about her capability in wielding it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Niki!” Tommy replied, punctuating her name with a nervous laugh. “My friend!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Niki moved forward as if to take a swing at Tommy, and he darted back off of the walkway. “Listen here lady!” He belted, bolder now that he was at a safe distance. “I won’t take this abuse from you!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that so?” Niki threatened, eyes glinting with something that Tubbo couldn’t quite place. She leaned against the doorframe, studying her nails. When she looked back up, her smile was victorious. “I wonder what Phil would say if I told him about you slacking off every morning to make messes in my kitchen?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy raised an accusatory finger. “You’re bluffing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When’s the next family dinner? Is it this Friday or the next? You know how much Phil loves my focaccia, and I wouldn’t miss his fishing stories for the world.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t believe you.” Tommy swallowed. “You wouldn’t dare.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Watch me. Clock in, Tommy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy gargled out a string of curses before turning to look at Tubbo. “Don’t just stand there! Do something!” He threw his arms out towards Niki, who valiantly hid her laughter behind her hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo gaped wide-eyed at Niki, who seemed to have finally noticed his presence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her appraisal was strange, out of place with the banter she had traded with Tommy moments before, almost sobered. It wasn’t unkind, but there was a strange guardedness to the quirk of her lips, and the way her eyes studied his hands, his pockets, as if she didn’t trust Tommy’s judgement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is this your new friend?” She asked, not taking her eyes off of Tubbo even as Tommy sulked back to the front steps of the little bakery.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is Tubbo,” he answered with an exaggerated pout. He accepted the broom that was thrust into his arms without another complaint.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m Tubbo.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Niki smiled, seeming to swallow her reservations, at least for the moment. “It’s nice to meet you.” She held out her hand, and Tubbo took it carefully, not wanting to ruin any more impressions. “Will you be staying to distract Tommy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I have places to be.” Tubbo gestured to his backpack, pointedly ignoring Tommy as his posture deflated. “An essay to write.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure we’ll see you around, then,” Niki replied easily, shooing Tommy inside with an idle gesture. Quieter, she murmured, “It’s nice to see him getting along with someone for a change.” She turned to watch her cousin, fondness softening the worry that laced her expression.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo cleared his throat, looking away. He heard a small giggle from Niki before a high-pitched scream drew her away from the front door. Tubbo stood on the steps for a moment, listening to another argument brew inside, before he shut the door quietly.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Tommy</span>
  </em>
  <span>, his voice said. And, as an afterthought: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Niki</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can’t argue with that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo backed away from Zuko’s, studying the building as if it would disappear if he didn’t remember every last detail. For all he knew, it might, squished like a pest between the tall brick structures on either side. It was quaint, he decided, now that he knew the face of its operation. He gave it one last look before heading back the way he had come.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His voice was quiet, now, as he rejoined the main flock of commuters. It simmered with contentment, small and warm in the back of his mind like a sleepy cat. Maybe it had just been hungry, Tubbo wondered, passing his hand along the strap of his bag. Or bored. That was fine, though. He could do with some more excitement every once in a while.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>wowowowow you read two chapters! look at you go! you must really like this fic so far, maybe you should tell me about it in the comments! that sure would be swell haha!!</p><p>anyways, niki has the most potent eldest female cousin energy i have ever felt, so it was only natural that i made it canon. hers and tommy's dynamic is also very fun, i love writing them :-)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. trusting things beyond mistake</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>chapter title from "The Predatory Wasp of the Palisades Is Out To Get Us" by Sufjan Stevens</p><p>thank you to egg, banks, and cat for betaing :]</p><p>tw // the last scene does resemble a panic attack — it isn’t one, but regardless (you can skip the ending starting with “As the cold wrapped...” if you need to), stay safe!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When he had first arrived in New L’Manberg, uncomfortably warm in the late-August heat and brimming with nerves, Tubbo had looked for the library. He’d done it unconsciously, carried through unfamiliar streets by a force he couldn’t name, until his feet found sturdy stone steps and a quiet, contemplative structure perched on the edge of the canals. He had sought comfort, and he had found it in the smell of old paper, the hush of whispered conversations, and the scritch of fountain pens. If he closed his eyes, he could picture himself back in Snowchester, and he knew the people around him by name, and he could call this place his home. It made Tubbo feel blessedly normal.</p><p>So he came back. For the first two weeks of his new life, Tubbo practically lived in the library, breathing in the soft, sweet air and letting himself be swept up in his coursework. He found it easier to concentrate, the less it felt like he was upholding his end of an important contract with people who could send him home on a whim. While he was here, he could pretend he was in middle school, drafting a science project in messy cursive instead of researching the evolution of human rights policies in cities that perpetuated gladiatorial combat.</p><p>That was why Tubbo was here this early in the morning. It was an easy essay that he had to write, by all means, but it required a more imaginative setting than his bedroom. As much as he appreciated the privacy, it hadn’t been enough to inspire him the night before. He doubted that it would yield results by the light of day. </p><p>From the front steps, Tubbo could just barely make out the light of a small lamp on the front desk. Otherwise, the building was completely dark; he could almost see the silhouettes of familiar shapes further in, blurry and faded into the shadows. </p><p>Tubbo pushed on the heavy oak doors, and they yielded with a soft wail. Immediately, he was greeted by a rush of warm air, baked in the scents of leather and tea leaves. He leaned into the current, breathing in deeply and closing his eyes against the heat. </p><p>The library was old — perhaps one of the oldest buildings in the city, but it was hard to tell; its age felt like it fluctuated, between its stoic posture seated in the center of the city to its bright, homely interior. Tall, thin windows allowed light to stream in, which caught against dust motes suspended in the air. It was beautiful in the sunlight, honey-colored and warm like a sweater, but even in the dim grayness of the early morning, it managed to look enchanting. </p><p>The entryway stretched up to the top floor, segmented by balconies that hung over the front desk, their railings laced with streamers of red, blue, and yellow. Tubbo found himself craning up to see them drifting gently on the draft he had let in. Little Manbergian flags had been pinned to the walls, too, and the golden thread glittered in the lamplight.</p><p>Suddenly, a timid voice piped up: “I don’t mean to be rude, but if you could– when you get the chance, just shut the–” </p><p>Tubbo let the door fall behind him, creaking into place against rusted hinges. “Good morning, Ranboo,” he said cheerfully, patting the wood as it settled back into its frame. </p><p>“Good morning, Tubbo,” Ranboo replied, a bashful smile stretching across his face. It was an odd contradiction to the rest of him, Tubbo thought, hands numb as he fumbled with the first clasp on his jacket. </p><p>At his full height, Ranboo stood at least two feet taller than Tubbo, though now he was hunched over the front desk, shoulders up to his ears and slumped in a too-small chair. He was writing fervently in a massive book. As Tubbo leaned over the counter, he could make out rows upon rows of names and dates, all neatly lettered in bright red pen. At the top of the page, Tubbo’s own name hadn’t quite dried, the ink still wet and glossy.</p><p>Ranboo looked up from his work, still looking slightly nervous, like at any minute Tubbo might just start throwing open more doors. Up close, Tubbo could make out the fine ridges that ran along his nose, jagged like rough-hewn stone. They cut across his brow bone and under his eyes, jutting from the leathery black skin in the hollow shapes left by his cheekbones. In the dim lighting of the library, Ranboo looked almost like a bat, with pointed ears that arced up past his hair, tufted with dark fur. </p><p>“I would say that I’m surprised to see you,” Ranboo started, his hand moving up to scratch the back of his neck. “But you’ve made a habit out of making me open early.” He laughed, and it was accented by a low-pitched trilling, rumbling deep within his chest.</p><p>Tubbo let himself chuckle at that, slipping his backpack off to lean it up against the desk. “You know me too well, Ranboo,” he said theatrically. Then, drumming his fingers on the counter, Tubbo leaned forward again to assess the papers stacked to the side of Ranboo’s workspace. “What is it today?”</p><p>“Building permits!” Ranboo thumbed through the stack, long fingers dancing across the clean white paper. “Old ones, too. This one–” He paused to shuffle the documents, making a triumphant noise as he found the right one. “This one is at least a couple hundred years old. They had to tear down this old shell of a building over at the docks, and this went up in its place.” He gestured with the paper to their right, as if Tubbo might look over and see exactly what Ranboo was talking about. </p><p>“This one is for an older apartment complex over on East Street,” he added, pushing it aside to skim the document underneath. “And this is for another science lab at the University.”</p><p>Tubbo shook his head. “Where do you even find all of this stuff?” He reached forwards to take one of the permits off of the top, squinting to read the small print of the letterhead.</p><p>“It was in a closet on the second floor where Tiffany keeps the arts and crafts supplies.” Ranboo reached out gingerly and took the permit back with an apologetic trill, setting it back down on the pile and smoothing it with a feather-light touch. “They were just rotting in some box until I copied them over. Prime only knows what would have happened if I hadn’t salvaged them.”</p><p>“I imagine the world would have kept turning.”</p><p>“Yeah, probably.”</p><p>A beat of silence passed between them. “It’s cool! Really!” Tubbo reassured him, watching as Ranboo reorganized the documents into a neat stack. “There’s bound to be something useful in one of them.”</p><p>“So, what are you here early for today?” Ranboo asked, effectively dodging the praise. </p><p>Tubbo straightened, backing a few steps away from the front desk to lift his backpack up by one strap. “I may or may not have an essay to write by noon.”</p><p>“Naturally.”</p><p>“Naturally,” Tubbo agreed.</p><p>“Did you need to borrow some encyclopedias?” Ranboo moved to stand, pushing himself awkwardly out of his tiny desk chair</p><p>“No, I think I’ll just use what I have on me. We have the textbooks for a reason.”</p><p>Tubbo hoisted his backpack up to crandle it in his arms. Ranboo saluted solemnly, and Tubbo returned the gesture, reaching around his bag to wave, before turning to seek out his regular table.</p><p>Most of the time, Tubbo worked at a small round desk under the stairs. It was secluded, yet there was enough light to work by that he was never bothered by the strange times of day in which he studied. He’d found it a few weeks back, most likely tucked away for storage, and convinced Ranboo to let him keep it. </p><p>Behind him were the biographies, a long stretch of stagnant memoirs and recollections of historical events written in all manner of voices. Some he recognized — an ambassador here, a redsmith there — but most were unfamiliar. A lot of them had aided in the construction of New L’Manberg, or had been integral to the foundation of trade with other nations. His voice didn’t have much to say about most of them; he would run his thumb across the spines, sending dust particles flying into the air, and still hear nothing.</p><p>A lot of New L’Manberg’s history hadn’t been documented at all. There were gaps all along the shelving where he should have found the information, blank pages in the collective memory of an entire population. For all anyone knew, the city had simply come into being one day, fully formed as if it had been settled in the bay by the hands of some benevolent god. </p><p>And, as much as he teased Ranboo for his excavation of the library, those findings meant a lot in the long run. Tubbo watched him now as he poured over one of the permits, nose pressed into the page like he might find something hidden there in the margins. They might not have been more important than the clues he was fed by his voice, he thought, but they were still a step towards understanding exactly what had carved this city into being. For a minute, Tubbo stared as Ranboo worked. Then, slowly, he opened his notebook and began writing.</p><hr/><p>It didn’t take Tubbo long to realize that he wasn’t working at his normal pace. At the base of his skull, he could feel his voice humming with energy, redirecting his focus. The floorboards were a lovely shade of purple underneath the rug. The flags were sporting the wrong type of blue. He wouldn’t regret it if he opened that supply closet across the way. Intermittently, his voice would perk up to provide commentary as he sluggishly filled out his introduction:</p><p>
  <em> Where’s Tommy? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Capital H, there. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Open the door. </em>
</p><p>It was distracting, yes, and Tubbo was deeply annoyed by the pestering, but as the hours passed and the library began to fill with employees and patrons alike, his voice became easier to ignore. Gradually, it quieted until it was barely a murmur over the sound of shuffling footsteps and polite questions.</p><p>There was a steady flow of people moving in and out of the space. Most were just there to pick up a book or two, or to pay fines before heading off to work. </p><p><em> Take the permits, </em> his voice suggested as a dark-haired woman leaned over the counter to listen to Ranboo speak. He was gesturing animatedly towards his work, and Tubbo could just barely make out a familiar explanation.</p><p>Tubbo muttered a few choice words under his breath, hand over his mouth to keep some semblance of his reputation intact.</p><p>
  <em> When he turns around. </em>
</p><p>“What is your problem?” Tubbo bit through gritted teeth.</p><p>
  <em> It’d be easy. </em>
</p><p>It went on like that for the hours that Tubbo spent in the library, his voice candidly expressing its opinion and Tubbo tightening his grip on his pen until his hand cramped. But now the essay was finished, and Tubbo felt the tension behind his eyes ease somewhat to know that he could move on with his day. He slipped his bag over his shoulder, notebook tucked hastily inside, and did his best not to sprint for the exit. He passed Ranboo’s desk and threw a hasty “Good bye!” over his shoulder as he went.</p><p>“Oh, Tubbo! Wait!”</p><p>Tubbo turned, and Ranboo was digging through a cabinet, one long arm suspended in the air with his fingers splayed. After a minute, he stood, holding a small package.</p><p>“You, uh, you got a delivery!” He held the package out, and Tubbo took it carefully. He felt a slight warmth pass over his fingers as he palmed it, and looked curiously up at Ranboo.</p><p>“It came yesterday, but it slipped my mind. You know me.” Ranboo laughed, but Tubbo was too busy studying the parcel to appreciate the joke.</p><p>It was small enough to fit in one of his hands, and light, too, wrapped in thick brown paper and tied around the middle with twine. He could feel a pulse of distinct energy through the wrapping. It made the hum in the back of his mind intensify, growing into a faint ringing in his ears. Over the noise, he asked, “What is it?”</p><p>“A book,” Ranboo replied simply. “I’m just the messenger. I didn’t place the order. You did!” He tilted his head, studying Tubbo curiously. “Didn’t you?”</p><p>“I must have forgotten,” Tubbo said, turning the package over in his hands. Unmistakably, written in bold ink along the spine, was his name. He ran his index finger over the text, tracing the letters lazily as his head filled with static. He could taste the pins and needles on his tongue, sharp like tacks as the sensation swelled.</p><p>Tubbo looked back up to Ranboo, who had leaned forward to examine the book himself, as if he was seeing it for the first time, too. He met Ranboo’s eyes — vibrant green, round and watery — before they shifted to stare at the space next to his head.  </p><p>“I’ll see you around, Ranboo,” Tubbo murmured, tucking the book under his arm. It left a gossamer chemtrail of heat and static in its wake. Ranboo nodded, a nervous smile crossing his features.</p><p>“Tomorrow, then?”</p><p>Tubbo was already pulling on the handle of the front door, Ranboo’s question falling flat in the stillness of the lobby. A part of him felt bad for leaving his friend so abruptly, but a larger, louder side was too focussed on the package nestled into his jacket to think about anything else. </p><p>As the cold wrapped around him once again, Tubbo found his fingers toying with the twine that held the paper together, itching to rip it apart right there on the front steps. This was important. It had to be. Its call was the same whisper, the same melody that pulled him towards names etched into cobblestone and old coats in decaying thrift stores. It was stronger, though, potent enough to make his eyes sting and his head spin with its force. Where names and coats rewarded him with a pleasant warmth, a hand on his shoulder that whispered, <em> You’ve done it. Look at you! </em>, this book burned like acid in the pit of his stomach, clawing up his throat until he felt like he could scream all of the secrets it forced into his lungs. </p><p>Tubbo clutched at the book, gulping in frigid air and struggling to keep it in his chest. The fire was a thousand times hotter now that he could feel the cold, as if it fed on the wind at his face, fighting every second of relief he might have felt. It left him staggering, one arm out to catch himself while the other was wrapped around his torso.</p><p>“What is–” He couldn’t hear his own voice over the noise in his head.</p><p>He had to get rid of it. The book. He had to throw it out. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t blink away the tears spilling over his cheeks and down his neck. The salt stung his skin where the tracks dried, and he could have sworn they had drawn blood for all the wetness he felt gathering in his collar.</p><p>Slowly, Tubbo pulled the book out from where it sat above his heart. His fingers shook, and he had to squeeze his wrist to keep it from spasming. He extended his arm out, deliberate and controlled, even as his hand blistered from the contact. </p><p>
  <em> Wait. </em>
</p><p>“I can’t–” Tubbo choked, muscles tightening against the strain.</p><p>
  <em> Please. </em>
</p><p>He said nothing.</p><p>
  <em> Please. </em>
</p><p>Tubbo bit the inside of his cheek. He tasted iron.</p><p>For a moment, he stood, poised like a frightened rabbit, eyes wide and full. Tubbo was ready to run. He was so ready that it made his heart jump in his ribcage, as if everything in him was prepared to follow, half a step behind him as he fled the scene. He could feel his voice, just barely, and its hands on his shoulders. They were cold and small, just two points of contact that he barely felt through the fire. </p><p>
  <em> Tubbo. </em>
</p><p>Tubbo wanted to scream. He wanted to scream even as he pulled the book back to his body, knuckles white. He wanted to scream as he opened his backpack, as he tucked it inside against his other things. But instead he was silent. </p><p>The clouds overhead had thinned with the passage of time. The morning was still pale, though, white and sharp like fractured bone. It lay in pieces in front of Tubbo, broken and quiet. The canal drifted along ahead of him, just a faint hush of water lapping against its stone sides. Tubbo was alone, the only heartbeat for miles, holding his breath like it might not come back. It was just him and the city and there was nothing and everything between them. He closed his eyes.</p><p>It took a long time for the pain to subside, peeling away in layers with each minute that passed. Numbly, he knew that he was wasting time; he could feel his hands, balled into fists at his sides, as clean and unharmed as they had been the moment he left his house that morning. There was nothing wrong with him. But there was a silence in the space where his voice should have been. There was an emptiness in the pit of his stomach.</p><p>The escalation was going to kill him, Tubbo thought absently. If he kept searching, he was going to die. And for what? He stared blankly at his shoes. His feet were cold. If he didn’t stop himself now, stop listening to the voice and stop chasing after clues like a kid in a chapter book, he was going to die. He needed a new jacket. This one was getting too thin. He’d have to go shopping that weekend for one that would do the job. Maybe if he had been careful — if he had taken time to think — Tubbo would have already been on his way to class, and the only thing in his backpack would be his essay and the pen he had written it with. He clicked his heels together. Click, click. He was going to die.</p><p>Tubbo felt a hand on his back. It was there for a long time before he was aware of its presence. He was sitting down, leaning forward on his elbows. The stone beneath him was freezing, sapping the heat from his body through his jeans. He hadn’t noticed that he’d been sweating under his coat, but he could feel the dampness, cold and sticky, where the hand was pressing his sweater against his skin. </p><p>Someone was speaking to him, running their hand in circles across his back. </p><p>“ –shouldn’t have let you leave. You’re overworking yourself! It’s okay to take breaks, you know. It’s almost the end of the semester, but still–”</p><p>“Ranboo what are you…” Tubbo trailed off, losing the point to his question before it even left his lips. It hung in the air pointedly, even as Ranboo’s eyes darted across his face. A low trill bubbled up from his chest, anxious and skipping like a broken record.</p><p>Ranboo scooted back, looking Tubbo up and down with pursed lips. In his lap, his hands fidgeted. “Tell me you’re okay.”</p><p>“I don’t–”</p><p>“Tell me you’re okay, or I’m not letting you leave.” Ranboo straightened, and even sitting down he still managed to tower over Tubbo. His ears twitched above his head. Tubbo stared, dumbly processing the command.</p><p>“I think I–” Tubbo contemplated lying. It would be easy to smile and laugh and say that he had a headache, that he hadn’t slept well the night before and it had set him off. He didn’t think Ranboo would stop him if he tried to leave.</p><p>The thought died on his tongue, though. It felt too heavy to move in his mouth, like he was speaking around rocks.</p><p>“I think I need to go to class,” he said, finally, ignoring Ranboo’s answering trill of disapproval. “And then I need to lie down. For a while. And close my eyes some more.” Tubbo turned to stare at his shoes again. He could feel Ranboo’s eyes boring into his cheek, as if he might find a better answer there.</p><p>“Tubbo, you’re not thinking straight. I mean, what was that? What just happened?” Ranboo ran his hands through his hair, his gaze flicking wildly across the stone steps. “That wasn’t normal. People don’t just do that.”</p><p>Tubbo was already standing. His legs shook underneath him, but he steeled himself, sucking in a quiet breath as he shifted his weight. He still had his backpack on; he could feel the searing heat through the layers of cloth that separated him and the book, but it was duller. It was more so distinctly uncomfortable than it was painful, like burlap wearing against his skin.</p><p>It was raw, though, even as Tubbo started to walk. He was starting fresh with scar tissue. He stomached the acid that threatened to rise in his throat.</p><p>“Tubbo, please.”</p><p>He turned, staring back at Ranboo.</p><p>
  <em> Please. </em>
</p><p>“I’m going to be late.” Tubbo had an essay to turn in.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>wow you are so cool</p><p>wanted to just briefly state that if you aren't completely sure what's going on, that's on purpose i swear hahahahahahahaha</p><p>also, ranboo heehoo love him i had to sneak away to write this no cool authors note this chapter sorry my bad will make it up prayer hands emoji</p><p>***edit: left the PAGE BREAK NOTE IN OH MY GOD embarrassment. real ones saw </p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. in between the lines</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>chapter title from "Dying Is a Beautiful Thing to Do" by EASHA</p><p>tw // themes of derealization for this chapter, so i'll include a summary in the end notes for anyone who needs it. stay safe :]</p><p>beta readers egg, banks, and cat -- you r so cool</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Tell me what’s going on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo’s apartment shook with the force of his entrance, the door closing solidly behind him. He pulled his sneakers off, tugging until they fell to the welcome mat with a solid thump. They rolled a good way into the kitchen before catching against the coat that Tubbo had thrown to the floor. Even without the layers, Tubbo was hot. Beads of sweat had pooled in his hairline. They slowly trickled down the sides of his face, catching in his eyebrows and collecting under his chin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me what’s going on, or I’ll burn that stupid book right now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ahead of him, the apartment was just as much of a mess as when he had left. His bed was still stripped, and the sheets were darkened with stains. His blankets laid on the floor in a messy pile. From the door, muddy footprints had dried into the carpet, leaving crusted brown patches to lead the way to the opposite wall. Tubbo followed them to stand in the center of the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With trembling hands, Tubbo undid the clasp on his backpack. Inside, warmth pooled around the package, and the heat stung his eyes as it bloomed into the air. He lifted the package out and let his bag fall unceremoniously to the floor. His hands burned through the paper, skinned raw by the force of its presence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is this?” Tubbo held the package out and above his head, gesturing with it as if he might catch the attention of whatever force had directed him to it. His eyes darted around the room, calculating and wild. His voice had used him. He was a pawn in this game, whispered half-truths and empty praises. He could feel them leaking out of his ears and down his collarbone, seeping like blood into his clothes. “What did you give me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When no answer came, Tubbo spun to face his kitchen, eyes searching in the darkness for any shape that might betray the thing he had been speaking with. He hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights when he had entered the room, and it was hard to make out the details this late in the day. He could see the outline of the fridge, and the stove, and the shadows made by potted plants, but everything else had fallen into a void of imperceptibility. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His last class had run late, leaving him to make his way home in the fading light, squinting through his own breath as it fogged in the air ahead of him. He’d grown numb, by then, to the pain at his back. It had been constant enough that he’d been able to tuck himself in a box somewhere deep inside his mind and lose track of the world. It had been quiet in that box, and blessedly cool, but the cardboard was thin. He could still feel hot hands as they beat against the walls of his sanctuary and sent spikes of pain through the roof to catch in his hair and dig into the hunch of his shoulders. He’d limped through his day in a haze of sweat and blood that only he could see, clinging onto whatever shreds of reality slipped through to stay conscious. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, Tubbo felt it all tenfold, and his throat was sore from the words he’d wanted to scream. “Tell me!” He called into the nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood roared in the space between his ears, dark and familiar in a way Tubbo didn’t understand. It was the percusion to an orchestra of violent sound, and his ragged breathing was a melody, though it was played offbeat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me,” Tubbo sang, a whisper under the swell of music in his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When it finally spoke, it was so quiet, so intangible that Tubbo wasn’t sure he had heard it at all. It was a cough in the audience, the click of heels against marble floors: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Open.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo strained, eyes squeezed shut as he tried to listen for more. He stood there for a long time, palms burning, heart skipping in his throat, and nothing else came.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, he brought the package back to his body. Tubbo’s arm was painfully stiff, his shoulders tense from holding it out for so long.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The paper had worn around the corners of the book; they were lighter, thinner, as if the thing inside had slowly been chipping its way out of its cocoon, like a moth wreathed in flame. Absently, Tubbo toyed with the twine around the center. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe he was the moth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe this was his cocoon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo lowered himself into the chair at his dining table, and his legs shook in spite of himself. His fingers were steady, though, as they tugged at the twine, loosing the knot and letting it fall away. The paper went next. He folded it neatly, a deliberate act of stalling. Tubbo kept his eyes glued to the wrapping, even as he set it down next to the string, even as his job was done, and the book sat in front of him, drinking in fresh air as if it were alive and dying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he finally turned his attention to it, Tubbo could feel ecstacy leaking off of the book in waves. It delighted in his attention, and he could sense that satisfaction winding around him like a hungry cat, purring along to the buzzing static in his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a Primer. The cover advertised that much. Its title had been embroidered in thick, golden thread, set in the center of an old leather binding. The leather was worn around the edges, and its ridges had become textured, more apparent as the finishing had rubbed away. There was no inscription, no subtitle, just a boldly lettered </span>
  <em>
    <span>Prime</span>
  </em>
  <span> through the middle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo reached out, and the book was dry, the leather almost papery. Tentatively, he opened it to the center. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pages were familiar, though the formatting wasn’t right. The text was smaller, slightly messier, as if it had been hand-lettered. Upon closer inspection, it may very well have been. There were places along the margin where a tired hand had slipped, smearing blots of ink into dark shapes that bled through the page. Tubbo could pick out a word or two where the ink had dried before it could be finished, and the scratch of the quill had carved illegibly into the paper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The content, too, was different. As Tubbo flipped through the pages, skimming the information fervently, much of it was missing. There was no passage about the benevolence of Prime. In its place, a paragraph about the importance of taxes, of all things. The page that should have been dedicated to the structure of the church was missing, and in its place was a vague, confusing verse that did an inferior job of summing up the information that was supposed to be there. It was as if the first chapter had been erased entirely, and a poorly-written account of what it was meant to say had been put in its place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo shook his head, a low, displeased noise building in his throat. He flipped to the cover once more, and then turned it over to look at the back. There was nothing there, just light brown leather. The violent heat hadn’t receded; it still burned through his limbs, crawling across his hands to shoot up his arms and into his head. Tension swelled in his forehead, and he had to force himself to keep reading. Chapter two, he thought to himself, must be better. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, Tubbo flicked through the pages quicker, not bothering to read what was there. It would be easy to spot the header, he rationalized. And then he was at the back of the book, staring at brown leather once again. That wasn’t right, though. There were three chapters. There should have been three chapters. Tubbo checked again, taking more time as he read through the latter half of the Primer. He must have missed something. There should have been three chapters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that pressure was still building up, like Tubbo was a balloon meant to be popped. This book was old, and it was wrong, but it wasn’t what he was meant to find. Tubbo closed the book again. He’d start from the beginning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first two pages were blank, except for a pale brown stain in the corner that must have been a very old cup of coffee. He ran his finger over it, and a flood of warmth came alive at his touch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next page was a publisher’s note. Tubbo’s eyes darted across the words, the names — none of it meant anything to him. Even the date looked wrong. The structure of the numbers was foreign to him. He let his gaze settle on them, and he felt the tightness in his chest loosen, somewhat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, a note. It was written hastily, and the letters were sharp and jagged, as if whoever had penned it hadn’t been entirely literate. It was short, messy, smudged, and it burned. It burned like the sun had never been hot, and the blood in Tubbo’s veins had always been ice. He melted against it, folding into the words like the margins had been carved for him. Shaking, his breath caught like a broken bird in his ribcage, Tubbo read.</span>
</p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>Wilbur,</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>I am writing to remind you that you are a bitch and that you are old and this is funny to me. I would never be old. I am simply too cool to be old. </span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>I am also writing to let you know that the Power Tower (patent pending) is secured and should be relatively blast-proof. We’ve all seen what those bastards are capable of, though, so I make no promises. They’ll most likely keep targeting the embassy and the walls. When we need it, I doubt they’ll have taken the precautions to layer it with TNT. </span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>For now, I’m safe. Me and the rest of the battalion are holed up by the creek on the other side of the hills, and I’ve managed to keep them under control, because I am a leader and a big man. There’s plenty of resources here, flint especially, so I’ve had them fletching arrows in our spare time. When we get back, we’ll be ready to fend off the Idiot Brigade (patent pending) and their bitchass enchanted armor.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>I hope this letter finds you, and finds you okay.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>Your brother</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <em>
    <span>Tubbo read the letter over once more, squinting to read the disjointed cursive. It was distinctly Tommy, he thought to himself, leaning over his friend’s shoulder to take the book. It was heavier than he expected, a parting gift of the enchanting table, and he hefted it with more effort than he would have liked to.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Tommy caught his wrist as he pulled away. For a second, Tubbo was jolted forward by the force in his friend’s grip, but he managed to catch himself. He glared down at Tommy, and he met only stone-faced sobriety. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Are you sure you won’t get caught?” Tommy worried his bottom lip, pausing to look down at the Primer. “You’re gonna be okay?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m positive.” Tubbo bent down to meet Tommy’s eyes, placing himself between them and the potential that Tommy had imagined for their future. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I don’t believe you.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I didn’t ask you to believe me,” Tubbo retorted, but there was no bite to his words. Instead, he let a playful smile roll over his expression, relaxing his wrist in Tommy’s hand. “I’m telling you to trust me.” With that, Tubbo twisted, rolling Tommy’s shoulder to pin his arm behind the chair. Tubbo crowed triumphantly at his friend’s shriek, keeping his stance locked even as Tommy squirmed in his seat.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“That’s not fair!” Tommy cried out, a whine creeping into his voice as he rocked back and forth. His protest was loud enough to echo, and it resonated throughout their hideout, bouncing off the rugged stone walls to ring in Tubbo’s ears. He winced, and glanced away to scan the room.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No sound followed Tommy’s outburst. Peaceful stillness returned, and with it, Tubbo felt himself relax. There were no arrows, no swords, no glint of netherite — just the far off drip of water (</span>
  </em>
  <span>drip, drip drip</span>
  <em>
    <span>, it sounded from deep within the cave) and the crackle of a dying fire from across the room. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>There, sitting next to the clumsy campfire, Jack relit a torch, and he set it back into its sconce as Tommy once again called for Tubbo to “Quit being a bitch!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Jack was whistling low under his breath, ignoring Tommy with a dedication that Tubbo couldn’t help but admire. He watched Jack’s movement in his periphery as he moved back to the fire. Dodging a swing from Tommy’s free arm, Tubbo caught his eye with a toothy grin. Jack returned the smile, shook his head, and sat to stoke the flames.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Tommy took advantage of Tubbo’s momentary distraction, flailing wildly until his palm found the side of Tubbo’s face. He pushed hard, rocking back in the chair as Tubbo was sent skidding across the stone floor. Tommy just barely managed to swipe the Primer from his grasp before he was out of reach. There was a beat of silence as they both processed the scene, and then Tommy caterwauled, victory flashing in his smile. He threw his hands up, and Tubbo couldn’t help but laugh, too. He wiped at the ink smeared on his cheek. It was dark on his hand, a smear of gray that halved his palm.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Tubbo looked up to chide Tommy</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and there was his kitchen table. His kitchen table, and the book where it sat, parted down the center, open to a page he couldn’t see from the floor. His floor, which was carpeted and not cold stone. Behind him, the clock on the wall ticked slowly, sharply, and Tubbo twisted to stare at it. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.</span>
  <em>
    <span> Drip, drip, drip.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“We’re out of carrots,” Jack called, tossing a burlap sack to the ground. It fell gently, landing to rest between the three of them, a moot point. “And bread,” he added, as if Tubbo hadn’t been the one to break the news the day before.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Add it to the shopping list,” Tommy barked back, and he tipped his head to smirk at Tubbo, who hid his laugh behind his hand. Tommy’s arm still dangled over the back of the chair; if he moved quick enough, he might be able to–</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“That was a bit rude.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Tommy’s brow furrowed, slightly, and he turned back to face Jack. “Okay.” He punctuated each syllable as if it were two separate words. It was joking, teasing, but Tubbo saw the tension build in Tommy’s shoulders.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You could try being helpful.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Tommy bristled. Jack straightened where he sat, matching his stance. “Say that again, I dare you.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Jack, maybe you should go get some fresh air.” Tubbo kept his eyes locked on Tommy’s fists, clenched at his side, knuckles white. “See if you can find anything to forage before nightfall. You’re good at that, I’m sure you’ll come back with something edible.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Jack made a small noise, stuck between agreement and protest. Out of the corner of his eye, Tubbo could see his decision play out in his body language, as if he was physically debating the suggestion. Finally, he stood, and his movements were stiff as he made his way for the entrance. Tubbo turned to watch him leave, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and the clock on the wall ticked. Slowly, sharply. Tick, tock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo blinked, once, twice. He had swiveled his neck as far as it would go to see the wall behind him, and his back ached from holding the position. He stared up at the clock face, eyes wide and uncertain. There shouldn’t have been a clock there. It didn’t make any sense; they didn’t have the resources to furnish their cave with a clock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he wasn’t in a cave. He was in an apartment — </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>apartment. That was his clock, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> was Tubbo, and he was a student, and those were his muddy footprints in his carpet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t–” The words caught, his voice breaking around the shape they made in his throat. His breath felt hot around his face, suffocating with every shuddering exhale. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Yeah, I know.” Tommy’s expression had soured. He stared down at his lap, facing away from Tubbo now. He could see, though, in the set of his jaw, the scowl that he had turned on himself. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I wasn’t gonna lecture you.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’d kill you before you got the chance.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Tubbo let himself laugh at that, and he stood, circling the chair to stand next to Tommy. At this vantage point, Tubbo was barely taller than him. He could see the top of his head where he normally wore his hat; Tommy’s roots were slick, and his hair was a mess of dirty blonde curls, gnarled and unkempt. His eyes were dark, swimming with what-ifs, staring straight through his uniform. The navy contrasted with the pallor of his face and his hands, which almost looked yellow in the strange lighting of the cave, as if his whole body was bruised. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You’re my best friend,” Tubbo started, leaning down to look into Tommy’s face. “You’re scared. But that’s okay, because I’m scared too. We’re all scared. Jack’s scared of starving, mostly, but he’s also scared for you, and me, and for Wilbur.” He watched his words sink in, scanning Tommy’s face for any sign of his reaction. “But we need to be brave if we’re going to get through this.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m going to trust you,” Tommy said, finally, and his words settled like an empty burlap sack. He closed the book and ran his hands over the cover. It was a beautiful Primer, bound and laced with the type of care that comes at a steep price point. Tommy had had it for longer than they’d been friends, and for longer than they’d been at war. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>They’d already lost letters, he thought to himself, watching Tommy stroke the embroidery. They hadn’t heard from Wilbur in a long time, and this was their first attempt at sending him something since the beginning of their expedition. He couldn’t remember how much time had passed since they had left. It had been at least a month, closing in on two. Tubbo was homesick, but he mostly missed his friends.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Tommy was the one who loved L’Manberg with a passion, with a fire that not even Wilbur could rival. It was something that scared Tubbo when he saw it. It danced in Tommy’s eyes like martyrdom, terrifying in its intensity. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It had been Tommy’s idea to stay away for this long in the first place. It was strategy, he had said, not quite meeting his friends’ eyes. It was too much of a liability for them all to be in the same place at the same time. Before, they had all been accounted for, lined up in alphabetical order to be picked off one by one. Now their revolution had hope in the shape of obsidian foundations, a chance in the shaft of arrows. Distance was good. Beneficial, even.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But distance had painted dark circles under Tommy’s eyes, and they grew as the coals in the fire pit sputtered with dying heat. Distance had put them here, cold and hungry. Distance placed the Primer in Tubbo’s hands, set the leather against his palms, and murmured a prayer under its breath. Distance hugged him good-bye, and asked him to tell its brother that it missed him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>When Tubbo gave his reply, he spoke to an empty room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had gotten darker. Outside, the streetlamps had finally turned on, and the light filtered in through his blinds and across his bed. The shadows, though, had grown, and their depth had increased. Tubbo was cradled by this darkness, held in its arms as he stood on shaky legs, the book in his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Primer wasn’t warm anymore. It was cold, just a book. There was no noise, no heat, no stinging energy. The static that had filled his limbs had long since discharged. His body was eerily quiet. It was a peacefulness Tubbo wasn’t used to. It felt wrong to feel nothing. After so much pain, relief was discomforting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t understand.” Tubbo’s voice sounded hollow in his own ears. He let his head fall back, eyes searching his ceiling for an answer in the swirling plaster. The shapes danced in their stillness, offering nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His voice didn’t have a response, either. Tubbo could hardly feel its presence where it usually sat, draped around his neck and along the back of his skull. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo closed his eyes and pulled at the energy that should have been there, his breath catching as he drew it out. “I don’t know what this means,” he said, and the words stung at the sores in his mouth. “I need you to tell me. Give me </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” He squeezed the Primer tighter in his hands, pulling it up to his chest as if in prayer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo felt a draft at the side of his face. It slipped into the collar of his sweater, finding the hairs along the back of his neck. The door to his apartment had opened, and it was swinging slowly as if caught on some invisible string, tugged ever-so-gently until he could see the hallway outside his apartment. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Your brother</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the note had read. In the darkness, his fingers fluttered over the words, as if he could feel the scratch of the quill on his skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I didn’t ask you to believe me,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> he had said. That had been Tommy, taking his wrist, placing the book in his outstretched hand. He had been younger, sharper, slightly taller. His hair had been lighter, but it curled the same way around his ears, and Tubbo had seen that same scowl cross his features when he had talked about his home, about his future.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m telling you to trust me.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo looked down at the Primer. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wilbur</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it read in messy, awkward cursive. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Your brother</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it read, and there was a solemnity to its phrasing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door had stopped moving, now, stuck at an angle so that it hadn’t quite met the opposite wall. Tubbo could just barely hear his neighbors across the hall. There was a clang of pots and pans over their conversation as the tap ran. They talked about everything and nothing, lulled into an after-dinner stupor by the weight of their meal. They were happy, and full, and peaceful.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Tommy,</span>
  </em>
  <span> the draft whispered, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo set the Primer down on the table. He closed the door, and met no interference as he pushed it back into its frame. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m going to trust you,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Tommy had told him. Tubbo cast his gaze to the window. Outside, the lamps were a cold, yellow haze against the fog that had once again settled over the hills. He could just make out the house across the street, shadowed by the overarching branches of an old maple. The lights in the windows had long since gone dark. The little home slept, and inside was a sleeping family.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Tubbo’s breath quieted, and his heart slowed in his chest, he watched the serenity unfold from behind glass. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He needed to speak to Tommy.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>chapter summary:</p><p>Tubbo returns to his apartment and confronts his voice. He is told to open the package, and finds an old Primer (Prime bible) with a letter inside from an unknown author to a man named Wilbur. Tubbo experiences a vision of the moment directly after the letter is written, and finds himself face-to-face with Tommy and Jack. The vision fades, and Tubbo is left more confused than ever, and without his voice.</p><p>okay anyways hi guys</p><p>jack manifold enjoyers how are you all feeling right now? he is so great. so is tommy! but this isn't the tommy tubbo knows, no... this tommy feels a lot different... hm. i wonder what that could mean?</p><p>let me know your theories in the comments they literally make me so happy!!!! also just a reminder that if you still don't know what is going on, that is intentional, and in the next few chapters, there will be some developments that'll help connect some dots ;)</p><p>also might change the upload schedule to saturdays now? thoughts? i want the maximum amount of clout possible so,</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. our solitude will sing</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>chapter title from "Atoms" by Nana Grizol</p><p>tw // themes of derealization, and generally depressing mood, stay safe :-)</p><p>thank you to my "incredible, sexy, smart, and stupendous" bestie egg, and also banks and cat for beta reading</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Two days passed, and Tubbo was out of milk. He had been out for a while, but he hadn’t known until he was about to pour it from an apparently empty bottle, and the not-milk splashed over his apparently dry cereal. He had eaten it plain, and ignored the bitter aftertaste that the aspartame left on his tongue. He hadn’t known, because there had been no one to tell him. Tubbo hadn’t heard his voice since he had read the letter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo was out of paper towels, too. He found out when he had gone to dry his hands, and there was cardboard where the towels should have been. He had rummaged through the cabinet under his sink, dripping water onto the floor mat, and had only found bleach and a torn package of kitchen sponges. He resigned himself to wiping his hands on the front of his pants. Even in the silence that rang between his ears, Tubbo could almost imagine the laughter that would have followed him back to his desk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the days went on, more and more of his things ran out. Boxes of dried pasta above the stove rattled with half-servings. The fruit basket on the counter sat empty. The tube of toothpaste on the lip of the bathroom sink had long since been pressed thin to the cap. There was no chiding tone listing off the things he had used up and idly put back in place, no whispering urgency sounding off when he went to make dinner. Tubbo moved through his day in silence, and the world moved noiselessly through him in turn. Finally, after four days of isolation — of terrible, screaming silence that sat in his throat like a stone — Tubbo prepared himself to leave the house. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The more he thought about it, he wasn’t quite sure why he had stayed inside. It was unnecessary; it made Tubbo feel anxious, to coop himself up in a two-room apartment and pace through his waking hours only to sleep restlessly through the night. At the same time, though, it almost felt wrong to leave without that familiar presence at the back of his mind. He felt it most when he reached for it, prompting a void where words should have been. There, in that liminal space between reality and falsehoods, he was lonely. Lonely and alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Late at night, he thought about the visions he had been shown, about a taller, sharper Tommy, and a haggard-looking Jack, and a faceless brother. Tubbo reached for the familiarity, for the memories that wanted to touch his cheeks, to run fingers through his hair, to whisper their secrets to him. But as soon as he came close, he found himself falling into the space that separated them from him, and he was jolted awake by the rolling bile in his stomach. It ached, being so close to things he didn’t really understand. There was no warmth to these visions. There was only a hollow chill and an echoing tightness in his limbs as melancholy lulled him back into unconsciousness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The faces he glimpsed in this space did nothing to answer the questions he had. He could call out all he wanted; from the other side of the divide, he could only hear their lyrical disappointment in the soft music that found its way to his ears. He could only see the letter, tucked neatly into the false Primer like a reminder. He asked into the void: “A reminder of what?” And then Tubbo was falling again, spinning into everything and nothing, and he came up for air into an empty bedroom in an emptier night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mostly, he just wanted to understand what came next. “Talk to Tommy,” he had whispered to himself like a mantra, but as he had mulled over the idea the next morning, it left a bad taste in his mouth. It tasted like not-milk and aspartame. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For starters, he didn’t know Tommy. He didn’t know </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span> about Tommy — not his last name or his favorite color or which shoe he tied first after he slipped them on. And, most importantly, he didn’t know how to ask Tommy for help. He was a complete stranger, one who didn’t know the first thing about the clues Tubbo had been left, or about the faces in his visions. He wouldn’t know why his voice had disappeared, or why it had pointed him with a dying hand in a singular direction, or why that direction was named Tommy… Tommy Last-Name. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As much as it scared him, Tubbo also had to wonder if any of this had been real at all. With the covers pulled up over his head and the curtains drawn, he could almost pretend like it had never happened, and that scared him endlessly. It had left no physical marks on his life, and had left him without proof of its existence, just the phantom pains of burns scars on his hands and a book he couldn’t find the origins of, except for the fact that it had been ordered in his name. Tubbo had other trinkets, too, from before. Once, they had sung with a tickling warmth, like candle flames. Now, they collected dust on his windowsill, more reminders of a heavy something.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On more than one occasion, Tubbo had made his mind up to leave. To do what, he wasn’t quite sure. He needed help, though, and that much was apparent to him through the haze of remembering. It was defeat, but each time he set his mind on it, he felt an inch of control. Each time, he made it as far as the door, scarf wrapped snugly over his nose, before he found himself powerless again. Tubbo would stand there for a long, long time before he realized his coat was on the floor and his head felt heavy and he wanted to lay down and cry. Tubbo didn’t cry, though. Instead he picked at the emptiness like a preening bird, and waited for night to come.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And night did come — it always seemed to, even if the days felt endlessly long and the white November outside never yielded to the finality of dusk. With night came a cycle of dreams and questions and whispered answers from people Tubbo wanted desperately to know. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fourth morning dawned. With it came resolve. Tubbo needed to leave, even if it was as small as standing outside in the cold for five minutes. He needed to hold reality in his hands and see it for what it was. And, most importantly, he needed milk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was the last straw in the end: the empty glass bottle in the corner by the door. As he turned in bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes, Tubbo let his gaze settle on it. There seemed to be an agreement hanging in the room between them, thin and fragile but enough to hold onto. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The market — that was something concrete. He felt like maybe he could stomach shopping for groceries, if nothing else. A pad of paper was real too, as real as the pen he clicked in his hand that wrote in thin letters across the top: milk, paper towels, and in bold, lest he forget it: chocolate. Tubbo filled in the rest of the sheet after a looping tour of his kitchen. Pasta, apples, toothpaste, tea. He squished the last note into the margins as an afterthought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, Tubbo was pulling on his scarf again, and buttoning his coat up to his chin. The door was a solid force ahead of him. There was no draft to carry it open, this time, only his own hands, shaking around the brass handle. He pulled, and it was impossibly easy on its hinges.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hallway was silent outside, and as Tubbo braced himself against the cold, it seemed even quieter on the street. It was another gray afternoon, but this one was darker and drier, like storm clouds had rolled past the city and swept all of the moisture from the air. The trees that lined the streets were almost completely bare now; the wind had claimed all but the most stubborn leaves, and left the sky to be cut by the dark silhouettes of skeletal branches. The yard outside of Tubbo’s apartment was a mess of those papery brown leaves, and across the street, Tommy’s was in a similar state of disarray. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pale gray house seemed brighter in the dim lighting somehow, as if the building itself glowed. Tubbo found himself staring, searching for movement in the windows as if he might catch Tommy’s eye and be dragged inside, handed a hot mug of some steaming drink, and be given a chance to explain everything. It was an idea that kept him locked in place, eyes swimming with the hope that maybe someone would come find him. He held his breath in the silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But there was nothing. The house was bright but it was still and dormant, and Tubbo forced himself to tear his gaze away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wandered down the path to the stairs, as slick as they had been at the start of the week, and scaled them with mild difficulty. There was a strange numbness to the way he walked, as if both his legs had fallen asleep and no amount of movement in the world would force blood to flow through them again. It was disorienting, so Tubbo took the stairs slower than he normally would have. At the base, he rolled his ankle experimentally, and then shook it. It was almost like being caught in fishing nets, like every action pushed against him with twice as much force in the wrong direction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo felt strange and wrong, and he found his breath catching in his chest. This wasn’t normal, and yet none of this was. He held the milk bottle tighter in his hand, and silenced the bubbling panic. The glass was cold and solid against his palm, and he chased that strength until he felt his weight settle back into his body. He had to keep going.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The market square itself was easy to find. Tubbo didn’t have much trouble navigating the streets, even though something dark in the pit of his stomach writhed at the thought of looking on his own. The thoughts that followed him were high and piercing, but they were his, and so he could do nothing to quiet the discontent that boiled inside of him. Eventually, Tubbo entered the Central District, where the market stalls bled out into the streets like leaf matter spilling out of a gutter, eclectic and cluttered. It was in the middle of the city, and therefore wholly in the way. Tubbo had found it strange when he’d first moved in; it was awkward trying to work around commuters and customers alike, and to worm his way through the crowd to reach the next stall. He’d half-expected to be robbed for all the bodies pressed up against each other. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But as he grew accustomed to the stimuli, and as his voice grew stronger, Tubbo became intimately familiar with this place. The platforms would roll under the crowds, rocked gently by an ever-present tide. The sea was heavy in the air. It was damp and salty and a mess of faces and words, but Tubbo could navigate the stalls with his eyes closed. He knew each barker by their banner, and each good or service by the taste of preserves or leather or candle wax that hung over the crowds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo found himself here on Saturdays, usually, when most other people chose to do their shopping. With his voice, he found that it was best to operate with a reasonable amount of background noise. That way, he could be guided through his route on autopilot and come out on the other side without having to do much of the work himself. It was arguably more difficult this way, but routine was routine, and Tubbo wasn’t one to argue with efficiency.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a Friday afternoon, though, and the crowd was far thinner than it would have been otherwise. It was mostly elderly patrons and parents with young children swaddled to their backs. That was fine; if anything, it was beneficial. Tubbo wouldn’t have to deal with some of the more aggressive people he had met in the last four months of living in the city. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>More than that unfamiliarity, though, something was wrong. The whole market felt like it had been covered with a thick blanket. As Tubbo passed through, slower than the pace of the crowds, he found it hard to focus on any details. They were fuzzy and undefined, even if he squinted. The colors didn’t make any sense, either. It was as if there were too many of them, all dancing before him with a frequency he couldn’t keep up with. It stung at his eyes with the force of its offense, and Tubbo felt his whole body recoil away from the scene.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tension built in his muscles until he felt like a coiled spring. It was bright and acidic in the way it filled his head, and Tubbo had to swallow to keep it at bay. He felt like it might explode out of him if he didn’t keep walking, but walking sent more unfiltered stimuli to swirl past in confusing patterns and pound at his temples until he felt like he might burst.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This was different from what had overtaken him with the book. This wrongness was something of Tubbo’s own design. It was the lack of that warm weight at the base of his skull, whispering directions and advice. It was absence, not presence, that swelled inside of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo passed his hand over a roll of silk leaning out of a fabric stall. It felt strange, the texture, as if he was trying to feel through rubber gloves. He could still touch it, run his hands along it, rub it between his fingers, but it was muted. He found it hard to believe that this was how the world really looked. It was heightened and dampened all at once, a living creature that sent shocks of electricity through his body with every step he took forwards, and threatened to swallow him if he didn’t keep moving.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe it had been his fault.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe he hadn’t been strong enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo balanced himself on a cobbled wall, forcing himself to breathe. Maybe, he thought with a darkness he didn’t quite feel, he’d been abandoned by the crutch he’d considered an asset, and now he was going to have to recover on his own. He swallowed the panic that was bubbling like nausea in his stomach. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe... Maybe the Primer was a test, and maybe he had failed, and maybe he deserved this for not being good enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo closed his eyes against the wrongness around him, sliding down the wall where it peeked out between the stalls on either side of him — to his left, brilliant swaths of fabric which had become dull and contradictory, and to his right, beaded jewelry clacked sharply on the outstretched arm of a short woman with fuzzy, out of focus features. The waters of the canal were too loud against the wooden support beams of the floating market. The salt made his eyes water. Tubbo let his head fall into his hands, and waited for everything to stop spinning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Outside of his hiding spot, Tubbo could hear seagulls, and their cries sounded like radio static. From there, everything dissolved into white noise, until he could hear nothing over the roar of silence, and the darkness behind his eyelids stretched into a sea of black. Everything and nothing all at once became the opposite.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Follow.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Clarity. It was as sharp as a butcher’s knife, cutting through the fog like it was hot and alive. It was like windchimes, like birdsong, like minced garlic in a hot pan the way that it sizzled in the space between Tubbo’s ears. He looked up and the focus was blinding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo saw a boy. He was short, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he had been idling there for a long time. Shaggy blonde hair fell over his forehead in thick waves, but even through the curtain of curls, his cheeks looked gaunt. He was a skeleton, standing straight as if he had been set there with metal brackets holding his hands in the pockets of an oversized suit. He looked down at Tubbo with round, hollow eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Follow</span>
  </em>
  <span>, came the voice again, and Tubbo nearly melted into the familiarity. He watched from the ground as the boy’s gaze narrowed, even as Tubbo’s mind worked to catch up with the questions spilling from his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you–”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Follow.</span>
  </em>
  <span> The syllables were drawn out with an impatience that made Tubbo flinch. The voice was louder this time, but it was also the loudest Tubbo had ever heard it, ringing like a bell even as annoyance crept into its intonation. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Get up.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo obliged, scrambling up from the ground and pushing off the wall. His legs still shook, but he ignored the strain because he could feel it, and that was what mattered. Everything was back to normal, set against a backdrop of shapes and colors he could understand. It was blissfully real, real enough to reach out and touch and then </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel</span>
  </em>
  <span> in all of its candor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy was already walking forward, though, folding neatly into the crowd, and Tubbo darted forward after him. If not for his unruly head of hair, Tubbo might have missed him. But there he was, bobbing through the crowd, seemingly unaffected by the tide of shoppers. He moved quickly, staying far enough away that he almost disappeared from view before suddenly he was within reach, always staring back with bright blue eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They wound through the market square in their twisted, back-tracking dance until the markets bled into tall, thin apartment buildings. They were almost as old as the city themselves, stretching up and over the streets on wooden stilts. It was a circus of brick and mortar, performers leaning out to jeer at the crowd and whistle with cold wind that streamed through the eves. The sun was low in the sky already, in spite of the time, and shadows cast by the tall figures danced on the cobblestone streets. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, Tubbo moved on, spurred by the hastening footsteps of the boy. He clutched weakly at the stinging pain in his side; he wasn’t sure how long he could go on like this. Then, the boy was ducking down an alleyway, and Tubbo skidded to a stop at its mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a dead end, surrounded on all sides by steep stone walls and darkened with age. Dirt caked the path, and Tubbo imagined that it had been a long time since the alley had had a use. Now it was desperately important — that much was clear as the boy wheeled around to level his stare on Tubbo. He found himself moving forward against his rationality. He could taste the soot that echoed from his footsteps, clouding the air as it drifted in the space he left.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you the voice?” Tubbo asked, and his own was cracked and dry from disuse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy simply met his gaze and blinked, slowly and purposefully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo could have laughed. “Then you’re here to answer my questions, right? You can… You can fix all of this.” He buried a hand in his hair. “I don’t know where to start, I– I guess I just want to know why, I mean–”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Follow. Quiet.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I beg your pardon?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy was beckoning Tubbo to come forward, and there was a fresh urgency written on his face. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Time.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I still… I still don’t understand what you want from me.” He still took a step forward, letting the boy guide him, if a bit slower, towards the back of the alley. “Why won’t you just tell me what to do?” There it was again: that hopelessness that built up in his chest like wadded cotton. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy turned once more, and was that pity written on his face? Tubbo wasn’t sure. It didn’t seem human, the sorrow that might-have-been. It was aloof and removed, but it looked sad, somehow. It made Tubbo feel like if he could reach out and hold the boy’s face in his hands, like maybe they could understand each other. Maybe if they could just talk, one of them might listen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo found himself reaching out, and this time his movements were intrinsically controlled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the boy threw himself back with a strength he shouldn’t have been capable of. His eyes blew wild and scared, and he threw his arm out behind him towards the end of the alley, gesturing madly, almost stumbling over himself in his haste.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was then that Tubbo felt a hand settle on his shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He jumped, lurching forward and launching his arms out ahead of him to catch his fall. Before he could hit the ground, he was being hauled up by his shoulders, and set back solidly on his feet even as he braced himself to hit the pavement. Tubbo whirled around and came face-to-face with a man he almost recognized.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinked, and it might have been Tommy: shaggy blonde hair, a round face, softened features around an angled bone structure. He blinked again, and it was a stranger. Another blink, and maybe he did actually recognize this man.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The world was already feeling clearer with the return of his voice. It was as if each breath Tubbo took brought the details around him into sharper focus. He hadn’t had a chance to take it in until now, and his heart beat faster as he let himself look around. The world practically sang to him as he melded back into it. Information clouded his thoughts with an easy casualty, and he could have cried for everything he knew once more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the man was talking to him. His lips were moving, numb around the frozen air. Seeing them that way, stiff and awkward, made Tubbo realize how cold he was too. The wind was bitter, even in the shadows of the alley, and it clawed with icy talons at the exposed skin on his face. He reached up, slowly and without really meaning to, to pull his scarf up over his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Talk to me. I need to know if you’re alright.” It seemed less of a question and more of a command. Tubbo found himself answering before he could think about his response, and he tripped over his words behind the thick fabric over his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I–” The boy, he had been… Scared? No, it hadn’t been fear that had colored his movements. It almost felt like resolve, dark and heavy. It made Tubbo’s legs feel shaky to think about it. He turned to look, but there was the alleyway. The alleyway and nothing else. Just soot and shadows and Tubbo and the man behind him, and it bled into age and disrepair that felt more and more tangible the further it snaked along. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But he– there was a…” His mouth was full of sand. He could feel every gash along the inside of his cheek where he had bitten down, and where the thick taste of iron now sat in place of a far-away emptiness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mate, let’s get you somewhere safe.” That man again. Tubbo could feel the bewilderment on his face, and he saw it reflected in the man’s own expression. It was hard to read, but Tubbo knew the look that people gave him when they wanted to be supportive, but they didn’t know where to begin to understand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo turned once more to stare into the dimness of the alley. As far as he could tell, nothing stood out. It was all concrete and stone, stretching endlessly to meet the pale gray clouds rolling above them. At the far end was a solitary sewer grate. It hummed with the faintest warmth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where do you live? Let me take you home.” His eyes were kind. Tubbo could tell that more than anything. They were gently lined at the corners with crow’s feet, still fresh but old enough that he could see their influence. The man’s hand was outstretched, poised as if Tubbo might dart away at any second. It was a precaution as much as it was an invitation. “My name is Phil,” he added, and it was an offering.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sewer grate sang.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo looked down at his own hands. They were raw and red against the dark wool of his jacket, and he could trace the white cracks along his knuckles where his skin had started to split. They were hands that didn’t belong to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He let Phil take them.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>dadza canon omg</p><p>also, is now a good time to tell you all that the chapter titles are incredibly revealing? yes? no? just something to keep in mind if you're trying to piece together the mystery ;-)</p><p>this chapter comes a week late because i've been working on my ranboo contest entry!! it's very cool (i hope), and it's taking all of my effort HAHA, but i have a backlog of chapters so i figured one more wouldn't hurt anyone</p><p>if you enjoyed, comments are very much appreciated :D literally you have no idea how much they mean</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. share the weight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>chapter title from "Talk to Me" by Cavetown</p><p>thanks to egg for reminding me to post, and also banks and cat for beta reading (and thanks jack but not for beta reading rip)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Phil was good at talking. Tubbo decided this halfway back home, led gently by the arm through the market square. It was an easy observation to make, because Phil didn’t seem to do much of anything else. He didn’t need any help, either, murmuring under his breath for only Tubbo to hear without ever asking for a response. Tubbo didn’t have one to give, either way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Around them, the air was cold like glass. It was sharp and angled and fracturing the way it caught in Tubbo’s lungs, and through the kaleidoscope of shattered fog and sky, everything finally made sense. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The afternoon was beautiful. It was all the things Tubbo had missed about opening his eyes and truly seeing. The sounds around him were a symphony, melodic and bright. All of it, he understood, even through the layers, even through the tides of the canals, through Phil’s assurance at his side. Tubbo could taste candle smoke on his tongue and fragrant honey at the back of his throat. Colored banners were beacons leaning out into the streets and remembering him with easy smiles. He saw the world for what he had come to know it as with an aching familiarity.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it didn’t stop there, because there was his voice, and it was alive. It rang like a church bell, as crisp in that space in Tubbo’s head as an April morning. As it rejoiced, Tubbo felt his mind whirring and calculating with a speed he almost couldn’t keep up with. It danced ahead of him, taking in sights and sounds and smells and people as if it ran on redstone power. The sensation was dizzying, but Tubbo felt joy building up like it might burst from his chest if he wasn’t careful. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Bread is good, bread is like home,</span>
  </em>
  <span> it called from a few stalls down, waving its arms excitedly. Tubbo hid his grin with pursed lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Watch your step! Watch your step! </span>
  </em>
  <span>His voice added, and Tubbo found himself stepping lightly over a shallow puddle sunken into the wood. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it was strange, because as his voice wound through the crowds, hoarse from disuse but otherwise unchanged, Tubbo found himself understanding more and more of what it was saying. Before, he had been lucky to even pick out the fleeting imagery and emotions that had caught his attention from the otherwise jumbled mess between his ears. Now, though, there were words. Real words, too, not just filler like sticky taffy that made him chew on its meaning until his jaw ached.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Behind all of this, there was a warm, soft tone that hummed directions and comments but never questions, and it was Phil with his hand on Tubbo’s elbow. It was constant, never wavering, never going silent. It was kind. Tubbo hadn’t felt anything like that since home, and it made something twist inside his ribcage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When I saw you run out of there,” Phil started, transitioning seamlessly as they sidestepped a protruding stall. “I was worried you had stolen something, but you looked so upset. I figured there was probably something I was missing.” An explanation, then. Tubbo nodded his head, and sympathy was a scarf the way it wrapped around his throat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m glad I caught up with you!” He said with a bark of laughter. “You’re fast, you know that? I almost pulled something — barely made it out of there with my carrots paid for. Then </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> would have been the thief.” Mischief glinted in Phil’s eyes, but Tubbo couldn’t help the guilt that weighed down his stomach like lead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, I…” Tubbo let the words trail in the air, hanging in front of them like a clouded sky until finally they drifted up into the darkness overhead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It took Tubbo a second to realize that they had stopped, and at that point Phil was tugging on his arm, pulling him around so that they could face each other. “Don’t apologize. You just startled me, is all.” He sounded genuine, but there was a strain under it all that Tubbo couldn’t place. His gaze was searching, and then finally, he asked, “Would you like a cup of tea?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo bit the inside of his cheek. His voice rested its chin on his shoulder, watching, appraising from Tubbo’s own vantage point. It was curious, but it did not smile, and it seemed to hang onto the silence in a way that suggested it would be giving no advice. He was struck by how not-quite-recognizable Phil’s face was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you have cocoa?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was how Tubbo found himself seated comfortably at the head of Phil’s dining table, swaddled in a big, plaid-patterned blanket. He watched with tired eyes as Phil busied himself with milk frothing on the stove across the way. The kitchen smelled like chocolate and black tea. But what was currently capturing Tubbo’s attention, despite the warmth around him and the whistling song of a copper kettle, was that this was Tommy’s house. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been clear enough when they had rounded the corner onto his street, and had steered in the direction of the little gray two-story. Now, it was doubly apparent. Across the walls and in cluttered bookcases and sat precariously on the scratched surfaces of end tables were what had to be hundreds of photographs. Tubbo settled his eyes on each one, and all of them were stories that sang in the same lyrical tone of his voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There, next to a half-empty candy bowl, five-year-old Tommy beamed widely up at the camera with a gap-toothed grin, holding up what looked to be more paint than paper for someone out of the frame to see. Next to it, a curly-haired boy who Tubbo didn’t quite recognize donned a puffy jacket and set out into a snowy backyard. There were photos of the two together, wearing backpacks and sitting on the front steps, holding instrument cases and looking into the camera with awkward teenaged half-smiles, and dressed up with their heads bent over the same book at a holiday party. Then, there were those that featured Phil, donning that same gentle smile he had shown Tubbo, but also where he was laughing, tears spilling over his cheeks, caught unawares with his family gathered close and laughing along.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Tubbo looked to each new picture, the context was warm at the back of his skull. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Second week of kindergarten… Early snowstorm in October… School Concert…</span>
  </em>
  <span> They tasted like sugar where he felt them sit on his tongue. These were intoxicating; Tubbo could have sat there for the rest of the day and drunk in the sweetness of each memory, and he might’ve, if not for the anxiety that curled in his stomach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because he was in Tommy’s house. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tommy’s house</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He was reminded with each sweeping glance over the room. Tubbo had seen it so many times from the outside, but now that he was in it, there was a sense of dread pooling in his chest. It felt wrong, somehow. This kitchen, it didn’t make sense the way warmth clung to the furniture. The wallpaper was dirtied with small handprints along the baseboards that had never been washed away, traced with red crayon or smudged with time. Everything felt too big and too small at the same time, as if the room was closing in and the floor was dropping out from under him. The pictures were seeped in a strange falseness, despite the stories that had left their fingerprints over the frames. What that falseness was, Tubbo didn’t know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m Tubbo,” he finally said, because the silence in this house would drive him crazy and Phil didn’t seem to have any reason to fill it now that they were here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s nice to meet you, Tubbo.” Phil had his back turned, hands pressed onto the countertop as he leaned over the stove.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, are you Tommy’s dad?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does that mean Henry lives here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Phil chuckled at that, and he turned away from his work to eye Tubbo humorously. “Henry is out for a walk right now. If you wanted to see him so bad, you should have just knocked.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another joke, and yet Tubbo didn’t feel like he should laugh. “I’m really sorry… I don’t know what came over me. I’m not… I’m not usually like that, I–”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mate,” Phil interrupted, turning fully now to look Tubbo in the eyes. His arms were crossed over his chest, but his expression was carefully neutral. “You don’t have to keep apologizing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a tense pause. “I mean, uh, yes. Yeah, I’ll just…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, you know Tommy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo cleared his throat and looked away. The tile flooring was a pale gray, and it was infinitely easier to understand than Phil was in this moment. “Yeah, we met the other night. Last week, I guess? He, uh, asked me to help him with something.” Something told him that the less Phil knew from him, the better off Tommy would be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And then I did, and then I walked to work with him the next morning, and he introduced me to NIki.” After a second of thought, Tubbo amended, “Well, Niki introduced herself, and Tommy sort of just stood there and looked frustrated.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Phil nodded, stirring the pan of milk as Tubbo talked. It was hissing gently, not quite boiling but close enough that pale curls of steam were condensing on the cabinets. They joined the thin stream of vapor winding up from the kettle, two white ghosts licking at the chipped paint..</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve seen you before,” Phil commented idly. “You moved in earlier this year, didn’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I live across the street — the eyesore with the square windows.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Phil tutted to himself. “That building is older than this house. I think it has character.” Tubbo bit back another apology. “What brings you here, then? Besides Henry. It clearly isn’t the architecture.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo’s voice bubbled with laughter, and he did his best not to wince away from the sudden emotion. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Blue hair blue hair blue hair blue–</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Law school, mainly.” The words came out harsher than he intended them to, but if Phil noticed, he didn’t comment. He bobbed his head, and then lifted the pan off the stove. It whistled with heat as it moved, finally quieting when he poured the contents into a fat, rounded mug. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whipped cream?” Phil called over his shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo shook his head. When there was no reaction, he responded with a quiet “No, thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Phil shrugged and crossed the room to set the mug in front of Tubbo. He accepted it with a small smile and let his fingers fold around the sides. It was round enough that they didn’t quite meet in the middle, filling his hands with stinging heat and spilling out through the cracks where the ceramic met air. The pain was welcome; it was grounding, if nothing else, and Tubbo relaxed into the reality that came with it. He was in Tommy’s house, talking to Tommy’s dad. He had his voice back, too. He was here for a reason.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Phil, can I ask you something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Phil hummed in acknowledgement, sipping from his own mug, and Tubbo took that as a cue to continue. He stumbled over the words which felt too big for his mouth. “Do you… What do you know about this place? I guess I don’t really know how to ask this. New L’Manberg– what do you know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Phil took a long moment to stare down into his tea. Thought played across his features, and none of it was anything Tubbo could comprehend. The way Phil spoke and acted, it mystified Tubbo completely. It was terrifying to not know, to be in the dark about something that felt so important. His voice offered no answers to the questions Tubbo had no words for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Phil finally spoke, he said, “I know… that I moved here when I was very young. I know that I met my wife here. I know that I raised my sons here, and that they went to school here. I know… I know that it’s very hard to get used to this place. There’s a lot of people, and not all of them are kind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But the ones who are would do anything to help you. And the grand majority of them are. Kind, that is. There are people who know how to listen, people who care, people who help you find lost dogs.” At this Tubbo felt embarrassment bloom in his chest, and Phil looked up momentarily to flash a knowing half-smile his way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t ask you to tell me what happened today. I don’t think you deserve that kind of scrutiny, not right now. But don’t run away just yet. I owe you this much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo traced his finger around the rim of the mug. There was a hot wetness gathered over the top of the cocoa, which had developed a foamy skin that licked up the edges. It was thickly fragrant like an old couch, but sweeter, more new, somehow. Under the blanket, Tubbo’s knee bounced against the leg of his chair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Four days of isolation, and this was what he came back to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was the most loved he’d felt in months. And it was wrong. It was so, so wrong and Tubbo didn’t even know why, couldn’t guess as to what made his heart hurt to hear reassurances fill the room like steam and chocolate. But it did hurt, and that’s what made Tubbo shake beneath the set of his brow and his gritted teeth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He found himself drawing inward, pushing against the static warmth that filled his head to find that place at the center where quietness lived. He could feel his voice there, draped over it with an air of dramatism and an indignant scoul, as if it hadn’t wanted to be noticed as a spectator. Tubbo pulled at it, begging silently for some semblance of guidance, or at least for it to move, if nothing else, and let him hide. He asked into the black space: what about this do you hate so much?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a pause in which no one spoke. They hung onto each other with fists full of the tension as if it might relent if they grabbed it tight enough. The moment stretched.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, quiet and unsure, still strained and broken from disuse: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wilbur.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo looked to the nearest photograph, one of two boys pressed up against a frozen window, eyes lit up with something gleeful and pure. They had the same face shape as Phil, round over an angled structure, though the resemblance was broken somewhat by youth. Tommy was in the foreground, and his hair was far lighter and much longer, falling over his face in platinum curls. Then, behind him in a big winter hat, what could have only been his brother. His hair was much darker, though it held the same curls swept messily behind his ears and under the brim of the hat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Phil followed Tubbo’s line of sight, and they both watched the memory glint, pinned behind glass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tommy’s a good kid.” Phil said, and nostalgia made him sound distant. “He told me about you, you know. He… isn’t always easy to be around. I raised him, I would know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At this, Tubbo turned back to face Phil. “What did he say?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He said that you were short.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh that’s rich–”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And that you were funny,” Phil interrupted, raising his voice just slightly to cut through Tubbo’s mounting tirade. “And that you were nice to him even though he wasn’t very nice to you. I think his exact word choice was ‘cool.’” Phil raised his mug, and he seemed to study the craftsmanship with some vague interest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, “He’s loyal, Tubbo. He already thinks so highly of you. Anything you need to get off your chest he’ll be there to help you with.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I don’t even know him… I don’t know anything about him. He doesn’t know… He doesn’t know anything about </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Tubbo splayed his fingers around the sides of his mug, and the cocoa sloshed with the movement. Quietly, he asked: “Why are you being nice to me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Phil took a long sip of his tea. It smelled faintly of vanilla, but mostly it was dark and earthy and made Tubbo’s mouth feel sour. “You’re a smart kid, Tubbo. You tell me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo thought about it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because he was a basketcase. Because he was a child who needed to have his hand held or else he’d get lost. Because Tommy had made him sound like someone good and kind, and then Tubbo had turned up and all he had to show for himself was sitting right here at the table. Tubbo tested each possibility on his tongue, and they were all bitter and slow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But if this wasn’t pity, then Tubbo didn’t know what else it could be. He couldn’t decipher the expression Phil wore now as he watched him struggle. It was almost humor, curled at the edges like he had just heard a funny joke.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll tell you what: how about you think about your answer, and you can tell me when you’ve figured it out?” It was less of a question, the way it was intoned. “How does that sound?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It sounds like homework.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m glad we’re on the same page.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo chewed the inside of his cheek. “Phil… I think–”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From the hallway, Tubbo heard the front door slam against the wall, rattling as the screen shook in its frame. The whole house felt it, and the floorboards groaned under two sets of feet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“–and then </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> said that Skeppy needed to stick his stupid little head in someone else’s business, or I would put it right up his–” Tommy rounded the corner into the kitchen. His eyes darted first to Tubbo, widened, then moved to Phil and widened even more. His hands were frozen around his head in an animated display. As soon as he seemed to register what was happening, his hands fell, and with them a red cloth leash dropped to the tile floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry trotted through the doorway, dragging the leash along behind him. He didn’t seem remotely surprised about anything. Instead, he sat up against Tommy’s side and grinned out at his new audience. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh. Well, hello.” Tommy turned back to Henry. “I told him I would put it right up his arse, is what I said.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A sliver of drool hit the floor at Henry’s feet, and Tommy seemed to take that as suitable acknowledgement. He patted Henry on the head, and then leveled his gaze on Tubbo and Phil.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Funny seeing you here,” he noted, leaning up against the doorframe in what might have been an intimidating gesture. It fell flat, though, because he was trying to twist the grin off his face. “Any chance you wanted to explain yourselves?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We were just talking about you, Tommy,” Phil replied immediately, and it took all of Tubbo’s self-control not to whip his head around and retcon the statement. “I ran into Tubbo when I went to pick up groceries for tonight, and then one thing led to another and I figured you two would enjoy a chance to catch up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I told you he was short, didn’t I?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tommy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Phil nodded his head in approval, and then downed the last of his tea in one swig. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” He eyed Tubbo once more with that unreadable expression, which made his voice squirm from its seat on his shoulder. “I’ll be upstairs if you need me.” Then Phil pushed his chair out from the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, alright,” Tommy called to his father’s retreating form. He watched the opposite doorway for a moment before turning back to Tubbo. “You are short, you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.” Tubbo huffed and pulled his arms in to cross them over his chest. He returned Tommy’s faux-glare with one of his own, holding it with all the bitterness he could muster.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you doing in my house?” Tommy tried again, and this time there was genuine suspicion turning down the corners of his lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Phil was nice enough to offer me hot cocoa, so I said yes, and now I’m here.” Tubbo gestured loosely to the mug on the table, which was still completely full. It had cooled enough by now that steam had stopped rising from the center.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy followed his motions, and narrowed his eyes even further. “What did he mean, ‘catch up’?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Beats me,” Tubbo lied. His voice made a curious noise from his side, and it seemed suddenly very interested in the conversation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well…” Tommy looked Tubbo up and down, and seemed to come to a decision. “Are you hungry?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yes!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good. I know a place to eat.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hey besties i almost forgot to post today ahahahaha but milfers group chat came through</p><p>anyways, phil chapter hehe if you couldn't tell, i love he. definitely a dialogue-heavy chapter, so i hope i did it justice :D</p><p>also i am officially out of my backlog, which means i have to write a chapter now UH OH. the ranboo contest entry really took a lot out of me, so i need to hype myself up and start clacking away. wish me luck, gang.</p><p>as always, it was a pleasure. the launch party vc wants to say "loud burp" / "good job me for being the best" / "i hope you have a fantastic day and you are loved" / "happy sunday" (lame answer)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. you and i were friends</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>chapter title from "Rough" by VIAL</p>
<p>thank you to egg and banks for beta reading (cat sat this one out bc i forgot to show her lol)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>New L’Manberg’s suburbs sprawled out from its center like arteries from a beating heart. The streets were alive, passing sleepy breakfast nooks and wooden homes and breathing into the cold earth. The further out they stretched, the thinner they became, bleeding from concrete into brick into wood and then to dirt, until they were narrow paths winding through wheat fields on the far corners of the horizon.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Here, the trees grew thicker, healthier than they were on the hill. The wind wasn’t as violent where the forests could be cradled by steep drops and languid inclines. Between the trees, quaint brick houses sat smoking, bathed golden in the light of a fading afternoon. Rooves tapered into pointed black spikes, trimmed with metal like lace, pouring neatly over newspaper lawns and paved walkways that carved the folds. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tommy led Tubbo down these quiet roads as shadows quickened under their feet. There on the pavement, they stretched longer and longer, two ghosts wrapping tired bodies over curbs, around iron-wrought lampposts. Each step shifted their darkened shapes until they became dancers with an audience of two.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A left off his and Tommy’s street, another left and they were on the main road, straight past the little park with its stone stairs. Linger just half a step longer at the dead spider of an oak tree that curled splinters into the sky. Then the path dropped out from under them in elegant, geometric patterns as the houses grew taller and sturdier along the base of the hill. Tubbo was lost, just like that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He might’ve known where he was, but there was a brooding tension at the base of his skull, and his voice was glaring in a way that made Tubbo distinctly aware of just how out of place his surroundings were.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Too much change. Unnatural. </span>
  </em>
  <span>His voice was sour. Tubbo cast a stern glare towards his feet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How long has all of this been here?” He asked, swallowing hard against the aftertaste that it left in his mouth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I dunno. Forever, probably.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something told him that Tommy wasn’t entirely correct. “It looks new, though, doesn’t it? None of it’s worn yet. The bricks are all freshly…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tommy narrowed his gaze, scanning Tubbo’s face in his periphery. Tubbo swallowed again. “I just mean everything in the city is so old. The hill is old, too. At least, some of it’s old. The foundations are old. But this isn’t old. None of it is– are you listening?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You are just so weird.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I– sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They were silent for a few steps. Rubber soles on concrete were thunderously loud.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t mean that.” Tommy’s voice was awkward around the syllables in his mouth. They watched his words hang in the air on a clouded breath.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tubbo bobbed his head. “No, it’s okay.” He cleared his throat. “Do you– uh, did you say where we were going?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Care to enlighten me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was a quirk to Tommy’s lips when he responded: “No. You have to guess.” He turned now to face Tubbo fully, and something playing in Tommy’s expression threatened to swallow Tubbo whole. Something hot and searing against his skin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Guess.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Hopeful. Meagerly hopeful.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I… Alright. Yeah, alright. We’re, um…” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tubbo glanced to his left, where a brick wall lined the path, and trimmed hedges sat plump and happy against the warped masonwork. There was a comfortable red-roofed cottage beyond it. “We’re getting desserts?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not even close, pal. Guess again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tubbo pursed his lips. “We’re…” A florist’s shop pressed itself between two lush spruces. The ghosts of rose bushes climbed its walls. “We’re getting… uh… salads?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What is wrong with you!? Why would you even suggest that? Dear Prime, never say that again. Not in my vicinity.” Tommy’s face twisted into a scowl.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I quite like salads!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That is just wrong.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tubbo huffed. “Fine! You’re going to dump my body in the woods and you’ll use my wallet to buy yourself ice cream. How’s that for a guess?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not so loud, Tubbo, we can’t have any witnesses.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I could take him.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I could take you! You don’t scare me.” Tubbo bolded his words around the smile splitting his lips. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, I should,” Tommy retorted, and it came out gravelly and filtered by laughter. “I’m a wrong’un, you know. I do drugs and fight people with my bare fists! I’ll break a bottle over my head! I’ll sell cocaine to your dog!” His tone suddenly lightened to that of casual interest, and he straightened his posture. “You a big cocaine fan, Tubbo?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tubbo hiccuped out a laugh, and couldn’t find the words to respond. Tommy’s own laughter found the air, too. Their two voices mingled  in the strangest way, familiar like a song he’d only heard while fast asleep. It was light, though, and it lifted off above the treeline before he could catch the melody. The chorus muddled. Then there was quiet again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They walked on, and Tubbo stopped counting the houses they passed, stopped waiting for them to peer through the woods with wide eyes and tall, thin mouths. There was hardly anything to count at all, save for the path as it crept tirelessly ahead of them, hand over hand through the brown grass.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Tommy did stop, it happened so abruptly that Tubbo barely noticed it at all. He caught himself a few seconds later, jerking to attention as the other boy’s presence faded from his side. Tubbo turned, and Tommy was posed with his arms across his chest beside a short, rusted gate, puffed up under his jacket with an air of importance. He threw his arms out to his side, then, and with a rolling gesture of his left hand, he announced: “We’ve arrived.” He dipped his head in what might have been reverence but could just as easily have been the thickest sarcasm that Tubbo had ever heard.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He desperately hoped it was the latter.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ahead of them sat Hutt’s Pizza, a smashed, crumbled, architectural nightmare of a building. It was something out of a horror story, rotting and festering and sinking into the earth unlike anything Tubbo had ever witnessed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He turned to Tommy, tried desperately to collect the whirring thoughts and emotions that flew through his mind. None of them found his lips. It was all he could do to watch the quiet satisfaction as it rested on Tommy’s face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s cool, huh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tubbo did not respond. Instead, he gaped at the diner which gaped right back at him in all of its disrepair. The sides were crooked and misshapen, folding into the center like a flattened cardboard box. They were caked with years of grime, in rolled, matted spiderwebs, and wrinkled by wind and rain. The structure itself was concave, weighed down by a waterlogged roof which sagged out of view. The windows were tinted black, whole and unbroken, somehow. They were sealed thickly with clotted white paint. It stared out with the empty eyes of a corpse.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t actually think you were going to murder me,” Tubbo finally said. Then, through a strangled laugh, “Do you have some sort of obsession with abandoned buildings, or is this just a coincidence?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What, you don’t like it?” Tommy’s arms fell to his sides. “It’s not that bad! You haven’t even been inside!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think I’d get tetanus!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think you’re overreacting on purpose to make me upset.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think there is no conceivable way to overreact in this situation.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tommy threw his head back to face the sky. His mouth moved like he was counting under his breath. Tubbo eyed him warily, and then turned once more to face Hutt’s. He wasn’t sure which of the two he was supposed to worry about more.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine!” Tommy said after a minute, shrugging his shoulders up to his ears and then letting them fall back down. “You win! We’ll just walk all the way home, go our separate ways. Maybe I’ll send you a postcard from now on instead of taking time out of my day to bring you places.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tubbo pressed his lips into a firm line.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This must be lowbrow for you. I should have known you were too good for the likes of me. ‘Don’t try being friends with Tubbo!’ They warned me! ‘He’ll just break your frail, fragile heart!’ Poor, poor Tommy!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He blinked slowly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I will never stick my neck out again!” Tommy let out a high-pitched sob and threw a hand over his forehead like he might faint. “Poor Tommy!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll eat your stupid pizza.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tommy’s composure returned immediately. He clapped his hands together, grin conflagrant across his face. “After you, then.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tubbo rolled his eyes and crossed the distance between them to stand at the entrance. The gate was only as high as his waist, and though it had been chained shut, it wasn’t difficult to step over it. He took his time, cautious over the chipped red iron. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ahead of them, a sunbleached lot blistered against the soil. The shadows of a hub of activity were pale and faded along the edges, as if even their memory had been washed from the grass. Whatever they had been, they hadn’t survived. They hadn’t had the strength to. Tubbo’s voice talked about them in a hushed whisper that he couldn’t quite make out. He could feel its warm, thin breath on his jaw.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>This is old. This is very old.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Tubbo shuddered into the whistling caution.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tommy, are you sure they’re open? This doesn’t feel… normal.” He tugged his sleeves over his hands until his fingers disappeared into the fabric, like he might cut himself on the frozen air.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sure,” came Tommy’s immediate confidence. “I’ve been coming here since I was a kid. Longer than that, even! You know, this place burned down about four times before they finally figured out how to stop that from happening.” He shouldered past Tubbo to lead the way, clucking his tongue. “Really a shame, I bet the original was quite the sight.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wh- four times!? When was the last time they rebuilt it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How long have you been here?” Tubbo balked. “Kidding.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Tommy kept moving, and Tubbo stumbled into place at his heels. Fat-stemmed dandelions splintered the pavement and bristled their tanged leaves as the two of them passed. It was late in the year, and they had long since gone to seed, but Tubbo had a hard time believing that they could be killed. There was a violent resilience to their growth. It made him nervous.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tubbo stepped over them the best he could, but they quickly bled into a weeded lawn, parting clumps of thick-bladed crabgrass and twiggy shrubs which had succumbed to the frost. Soon he was wading through their masses, kicking away the vines that tugged at his shoelaces. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His voice, winding through his legs in cautious circles, hummed pensively. There was warmth here, but it was dry and cracked like cement. It crumbled, static and confused, in the dark corners of Tubbo’s vision. Stale, stringy, sitting in his throat with a weighted sorrow. It was leaving, and coming home, and finding a portrait that might have been a mirror once — all of it was enough to choke him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It wasn’t always bad,</span>
  </em>
  <span> his voice murmured, and it was barely audible over the crunch of vegetation. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not always.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I mean,” Tommy started, leaping with exaggerated agility onto the raised patio. “It’s not in operation, or anything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tubbo stopped. “What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It hasn’t been, uh, a restaurant in… a few years. Not that long. Obviously, I mean, it hasn’t been condemned yet.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yet!” Tubbo repeated. “‘Yet’ implies that there are plans! Tommy, are you serious? Won’t we get in trouble? That’s illegal! That has to be illegal.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Must be illegal.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Must be illegal!” Tubbo agreed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tommy huffed and turned to face Tubbo fully. There was charged tension in his expression, but also a posture that suggested that if Tubbo chose to leave, he wouldn’t think anything of it. As if his decision didn’t even matter. “Are you coming or not?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He blinked, swallowed, scanned Tommy’s face as if he might find an answer there. His voice had gone still and quiet in his mind. He stepped back. Stepped forward again. Idled. Far off, something small skittered across dried leaves. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then Tubbo bobbed his head and stepped up onto the patio.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t look up to see Tommy’s reaction. He heard him hum, though, with a carefully guarded neutrality that might have made Tubbo laugh under different circumstances. They stood in front of the peeling door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tommy pushed on it, and it swung stiffly on its hinges. The metal squealed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Immediately, Tubbo was met by the smell of decay. It fled through the doorframe as if it had legs on which to run, and it passed over him but did not fade. It lingered there, wholly present, until Tubbo blinked the wetness from his eyes. Beyond it, the interior was dimly lit; shafts of sunlight filtered in through worn cracks in the ceiling, turning slivers of dark air golden. In them, dust motes hung suspended like loose tea in syrupy water. They spilled over the floor, where cheap tiles patterned a checkerboard that stretched to the back wall and disappeared into gray shadows. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He took a tentative step forward. The building protested with a low, whining groan. Another step. This time, the dissent was quieter, more reproachful, petulantly complaining. Tubbo held his breath against the rot and waited for the room to stop shifting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And you said this place wasn’t condemned?” He hissed over his shoulder.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tommy stooped under the doorframe, folding through the space to stand next to Tubbo. “Not that I know of. It’s still here, isn’t it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Barely.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Slowly, Tubbo’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, and the blurred shapes started to make sense. The room was larger than he had expected it would be, somehow expansive despite what Tubbo had assumed from the outside. There was a kitchen in the far corner, and a counter where guests might have once placed their orders. Through there, Tubbo could see a line of counters, and an empty space where a grill had once been, the outline caked in muck. The chalkboard menu dripped with the pastel deposits of melted words.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Most of the furniture was gone. There was a table laying on its side beside the counter, and three chairs in various states of disrepair; one stood crooked on three legs, leaned up against the wall next to a second that was torn open in the center, splintering out like it had bloomed into some broken, wooden flower. The third was faced into the back corner, pointed towards a thick pane of glass, which was clouded over with something dark and uneven.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tubbo took a step towards it, and Tommy supplemented, “That was a fish tank. There used to be a pufferfish, Hutt. Dad always said that this was his restaurant. My brother and I– oh, he loved Hutt. He was the funniest looking thing.” Tommy cut himself off to puff up his cheeks in a crude imitation. “Big, too. Biggest fish I’ve ever seen.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When was the last time you were here?” Tubbo asked. He spoke quietly, but it still felt too loud for this place.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tommy looked down at his feet. “I come here a lot.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When was the last time you came here with your family?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His eyes hardened. “They went out of business when I was six. We had my birthday here, me and Dad and my brother and his friends. And then we never came back.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tubbo cast another glance around the room. Everything was so broken that it was hard to imagine food, or people, or parties — anything besides their two silhouettes pulling memories from the walls. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But you came back,” he said.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I always come back.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was the truth. It was simply put. But something warm reverberated in Tubbo’s skull at the admission. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They stood in silence for a minute, watching time paint scars along its tired canvas. If he squinted, and if he held his breath, Tubbo could almost see what Tommy had. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We can sit down,” Tommy said, and Tubbo voiced his consent.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tommy crossed the room to the counter and pulled himself up onto it, feet just barely skimming the floor as he swung his legs. Tubbo mirrored him awkwardly, scrambling onto the ledge, and then they sat beside each other. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was a moment before they spoke again, where Tommy kicked his legs against the wall, and Tubbo sat in tense stillness.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Ask him</span>
  </em>
  <span>, his voice whispered, slinking through the heat with relative ease. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ask Tommy</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tubbo did not want to ask Tommy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Ask him.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tommy, can I– uh, ask you something?” Tubbo fiddled with his hands in his lap.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” came Tommy’s reply. He pulled something squished out of his pocket. “Turkey sandwich?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, I– well, if you’re offering, I guess–” Tubbo took the wrapped package. “I need to… Something is– no, I guess…” He made a strangled noise at the back of his throat. “Prime, why is this so difficult?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re not a drug dealer, are you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tubbo snorted. “No, that would be easier.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He eyed the sandwich in his hands. It had been messily-constructed to begin with, but prolonged exposure to Tommy’s pocket had pressed the bread in the wrong direction until it had wrinkled flat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve seen you before,” Tubbo finally said.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, we are neighbors,” Tommy commented flatly. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, not like that. Not like… Not like that.” He tore half-heartedly at the crust. “I mean… something weird is going on. With me. And I’ve seen you… before.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t think I’m following.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tubbo looked up to meet Tommy’s eyes, and there was something raw like concern in them. “I know things I’m not supposed to. I know people I’ve never met. I have this… this sixth sense where I– I </span>
  <em>
    <span>understand</span>
  </em>
  <span> this place like no one else, and I’ve only been here for– what, four months? It isn’t normal, and it scares me sometimes, but what really scares me is that </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’re a part of this</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” The words came tumbling out of Tubbo’s mouth as if they had been scripted for him, as if he wasn’t the one saying them at all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And all of it– it makes no sense except that it does, and I don’t know why or how or what even needs to make sense in the first place. But I’ve seen you. I’ve seen you and it’s like I know you, </span>
  <em>
    <span>but it isn’t you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It isn’t you, and that’s not me, </span>
  <em>
    <span>but it is us</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I think we’re… connected, somehow.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He took a deep breath in. “I need your help. Because I don’t understand it, and I’m praying that maybe you do. Or maybe you could at least tell me who would, because I don’t even know where to start. I’ve sort of been…” He chuckled to himself. “I’ve just been waiting for things to happen to me. And I’m tired of not having any control.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tommy said nothing. Tubbo held his breath in the aftermath. He felt like he might choke on the coals of what his words had burned into the wet wood around them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve hardly touched your sandwich, big man.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tubbo closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have–”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tommy lifted his hand, and Tubbo stopped himself. There was a moment of pause where Tommy seemed to taste his next words before they came. “Are you messing with me? This isn’t funny, so you might as well confess now if you’re just lying.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tubbo shook his head. He didn’t know the words that would prove himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then this is all real? And you’re actually telling the truth?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nodded this time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tommy set his jaw. Tubbo followed his gaze out the darkened windows, past the gated lot, through the treeline across the path. Like arteries from a beating heart. They pulsed with memories that weren’t his own. Tracked bloody footprints into the place that could have been a home, once.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tell me everything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Tubbo did.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>ITS BEEN A LITTLE WHILE HUH!!?</p>
<p>life has been a bit much lately, what with AP tests and new boyfriends and social responsibilities. all that fun stuff that comes with being a certified adult with things to do. BUT i was reading all your comments on the last chapter and finally responding and you're all just so nice that i decided to dedicate some time to chapter 7. i hadn't touched this bad boy since like... march... and a rewrite was both desired and necessary. i'm glad that i did, because now i can send this out into the world for you all!!!</p>
<p>moral of the story, your comments do matter, and all of you are very appreciated whether you do so or not :D i'll likely pass 1,000 hits with this publication, which is crazy!! and also very cool!!! so thank you :-)</p>
<p>also, i just want to say that the best part of being a writer is that i can go "hutt's pizza is real and also older than l'manberg and has stood the test of time because i said so" and this is the reality that everyone has to live with. simply fantastic.</p>
<p>there may not be a chapter up next sunday, but i can promise one by the following sunday! i hope you all have a great day, and thank you, again, so much for your support :.)</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hello! hi! hello! thank you for making it this far hehe</p><p>there is. a lot more coming, so buckle up!!!</p><p>kudos and comments are so so greatly appreciated :-) even if it's just the thumbs up emoji i will take it to heart and frame it on my wall for real so please AND subscribe if you want to be notified about updates, which will be posted on Sundays from now on</p><p>or you could follow me on twitter and come tell me your theories @Mariigold86 :D</p></blockquote></div></div>
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